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THE  CHILD  ANDREA 


THE 
CHILD  ANDREA 

By  KARIN  MICHAELIS 

Translated  from  the  Danish,  by 

J.  NILSEN  LAURVIK 


PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  •  SAN  FRANCISCO 


PT 


U1? 


Copyright,  190^.,  by 
McCLURE,  PHILLIPS  &  CO. 

Published,  October,  190^ 

Republished,  April,  1916,  by 
PAUL  ELDER  &  COMPANY 


Prefatory  Note 

In  ike  eleven  years  that  have  elapsed  since 
this  hook  was  first  introduced  to  American 
readers  the  literature  of  Scandinavia  has 
become  an  ever-increasing  factor  in  the  world 
of  letters.  During  this  'period  three  Scan- 
dinavian authors  have  been  awarded  the 
Nobel  prize  and  at  least  one  of  these  has  found 
a  widely  interested  reading  public  in  America. 

Everywhere  are  signs  of  a  growing  desire 
on  the  part  of  American  readers  to  rid  them- 
selves of  the  onus  of  the  ''happy  ending''  by 
a  marked  inclination  toward  books  and  plays 
that  deal  with  life  at  first  hand,  and  it  is  in 
response  to  this  growing  appreciation  of 
reality  that  *' Andrea'*  is  now  republished  in 
the  hope  that  it  will  find  that  under  audience 
which  its  merits  deserve. 

Rarely  has  a  more  authentic  human  docu- 
[lu] 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

merit  been  'presented  with  finer  tact  and  ar- 
tistic discretion  f  qualities  which  called  forth 
the  unstinted  admiration  of  the  late  Dr.  Weir 
Mitchell  who  pronounced  it  ''one  of  the  most 
subtle  studies  of  adolescence  that  it  has  been 
my  privilege  to  perused 

J.  NiLSEN  Laurvik. 


[nr] 


FOREWORD 

This  stort/y  giving  the  spirit  process  of 
development  by  which  a  girl  is  changed  into 
a  maiden^  was  written  by  a  Danish  novelist 
and  is  based  upon  the  study  of  a  real  girl. 
The  translator  has  omitted  a  chapter  relating 
to  the  dawn  of  sex  consciousness  in  order  to 
satisfy  American  ideas  of  literary  decency. 
This  renders  the  book  incomplete  from  the 
psychological  point  of  view,  but  what  remains 
is  the  most  pathetic,  beautiful,  and  shocking 
revelation  of  such  a  young  creature* s  mind. 

There  is  nothing  so  frank  as  perfect  in- 
nocence, nothing  so  erect  and  listening  as  the 
waiting  heart  of  a  girl.  All  her  instincts 
hide  her,  all  her  affections  pray  for  a  dis- 
coverer. In  a  subtle  way  the  author  recog- 
nizes these  characteristics  amid  the  pressure 

[V] 


FOREWORD 

of  many  tribulations,  which  are  common  to 
youth  and  imposed  by  their  elders.  But  the 
distinctive  features  of  the  study  are,  first,  that 
we  have  all  the  sweetness,  treachery,  and  ten- 
derness  of  childhood  in  a  foreign  guise. 
Andrea  is  neither  English  nor  American, 
but  she  manifests  well-known  traits  through  a 
personality  that  is  strange  to  us. 

Second,  we  receive  a  startlingly  clear  vision 
of  the  wicked  capacities  of  her  nature  with- 
out connecting  her  with  them.  She  passes 
before,  a  dainty  white  spirit  floating  above 
an  abyss  of  aberrant  evils.  They  belong  to 
her  by  her  powers  of  total  personality,  but 
she  is  not  of  them,  and  we  are  assured  that 
she  remains  ignorant  to  the  last  of  this  pit 
which  lies  beneath  the  snowy  lightness  of  her 
spirit. 

And,  third,  it  is  the  emotions  of  maiden 
adolescence  expressed  with  the  art  and  defi- 
nition of  a  mature  intelligence.  Any  young 
girl  might  have  felt  as  Andrea  did  under  the 

[VI] 


FOREWORD 

same  conditions  and  endowed  icith  the  same 
temperament;  but  not  one  could  ever  have 
set  down  so  accurately  the  blue  and  gold  of 
her  own  thoughts  and  sensations.  Women 
during  this  early  period  of  self-recognition 
never  tell  what  they  know,  discover,  because 
they  cannot.  Reticence  is  the  very  youth  of 
virtue.  When  a  woman  is  able  to  define  it 
in  herself  she  has  already  lost  the  maidenly 
privacy  of  personality.  Nothing  is  so  delicate, 
so  chaste,  so  unspeakable  to  herself  as  the 
sex  life  of  a  young  girl;  and  the  real  Andrea 
never  could  have  put  her  twos  and  twos  to- 
gether so  shrewdly. 

But  the  story  is  a  classic  differing  entirely 
from  the  vulgar  self -abortions  published  by 
some  women  vyriters  in  this  country  who 
imagine  that  they  are  maidens  because  of  a 
merely  physical  integrity. 

CoRRA  Harris. 

Reprinted  from  the  Indepertdent,  New  York. 
[Vll] 


THE  CHILD  ANDREA 


THE    CHILD  ANDREA 


CHAPTER  ONE 

The  Child  was  going  to  die.  The  Child  had 
to  die.    They  both  wished  for  it  —  now. 

Yes.    Now  they  wished  it. 

The  Child  wished  for  it  also. 

It  was  as  if  the  rooms  round  about  were 
dying;  as  if  the  home  became  a  cold,  speech- 
less tomb,  that  was  not  concerned  with  life  or 
the  living. 

Only  one  place  was  inviolate,  full  of  sun- 
shine, fair  with  flowers,  and  cheerful  with 
constant  laughter  —  the  room  where  the  Child 
lay,  the  little  Andrea,  their  tall,  grown-up 
daughter. 

She  was  such  that  all  people  loved  her  —  all 
the  people  there  in  the  city. 

From  the  market-women  upon  the  market- 
[3] 


ANDREA 
place,  where  she  used  to  buy  the  season's 
fruit,  there  now  came  thick  gray  cornucopias 
full  of  yellow  plums. 

"  I  want  to  smell,  Musser,  I  want  to  smell," 
she  laughed ;  and  smelled  of  the  plums  which 
she  was  forbidden  to  eat. 

From  the  big  gardens  round  about  in  the 
city  came  dew-wet  flowers  every  morning, 
and  in  the  evening  her  boy  and  girl-friends 
called  with  budding  branches  and  downy 
ferns  which  they  brought  from  the  woods, 
where  never  more  Andrea  would  go. 

"Let  me  take  them,  Musser."  And  the 
ferns  and  flowers  were  given  into  her  hands 
and  she  became  wet  and  laughed  gleefully. 

Poor  old  women  in  the  basements  and  poor 
maiden  ladies  in  the  Almshouse  cut  gerani- 
ums from  their  flower-pots  and  came  with 
them. 

For  flowers,  that  was  the  best  they  had. 

*'  Musser,  don't  forget  to  give  them  coffee," 
cried  Andrea,  and  she  wanted  to  see  them 

[4] 


ANDREA 

drink  it;  but  the  geraniums  she  crushed,  as 
they  did  not  smell  of  anything. 

**  Do  you  know  what  ?  I  have  a  dreadfully 
greedy  nose;  it  can  never  be  satisfied!"  And 
then  she  and  the  mother  laughed  at  that  little 
nose,  which  was  so  delicate  and  small  and 
did  not  look  at  all  greedy. 

In  a  large  jar  stood  rushes  and  cattails. 
They  were  brought  up  from  the  stream,  where 
Andrea  every  evening  used  to  row  in  her 
white  boat,  while  she  sang  and  shouted,  so 
that  it  was  heard  far  over  the  hills  where  the 
farmers  lived ;  or  she  lay  flat  on  her  stomach 
in  the  bottom  of  the  boat  and  ate  cold  pan- 
cakes and  drifted  with  the  stream. 

She  had  the  vanity  to  drag  the  oars  to  and 
from  the  boat  herself. 

It  was  only  when  the  moon  shone  that  she 
did  not  go  out  on  the  stream. 

And  every  time  she  looked  at  the  rushes, 
she  thought  that  now  this  was  all  over  for 
her. 

[«] 


ANDREA 

Under  the  ceiling,  flew  —  stuck  on  pins  — 
a  multitude  of  butterflies.  They  had  been 
brought  from  Brazil  by  a  cousin,  and  she  loved 
to  have  them  around  her  for  the  sake  of  their 
beautiful  colour,  which,  though  she  could  no 
longer  see,  she  remembered  well  enough; 
and  then  for  all  the  imaginings  that  followed 
with  the  thoughts  of  owning  something  "  from 
deep,  deep  in  the  big  primeval  forests!" 

It  grieved  her  that  they  were  stuck  on 
pins ;  they  should  rather  have  been  alive,  she 
thought. 

In  the  centre  of  the  ceiling  hung  a  little 
Cupid  finely  carved  in  white  wood.  It  always 
flapped  about  and  made  the  pierced  butter- 
flies tremble. 

About  these  there  had  been  a  struggle.  By 
the  advice  of  the  physician  there  had  come 
a  nurse  with  long  hard  hands  and  a  heavy 
step.  She  demanded  that  the  dusty  finery 
be  pulled  down  at  once  —  it  was  out  of  place 
in  a  sick-room. 

[6] 


ANDREA 

Then  Andrea  had  wept  most  bitterly  and 
jumped  out  of  bed.  Before  evening  that 
strict  lady  was  through  in  that  home. 

The  mother  then  nursed  her  child,  and  the 
butterflies  flew  under  the  ceiling. 

The  bookcase  was  pitiably  empty  of  books ; 
for  when  Andrea  wanted  new  ones  —  she 
would  not  borrow,  she  wanted  to  own  them 
—  she  sold  the  old,  but  the  old  were  of  little 
value  because  of  the  many  dog-ears  that 
marked  "the  lovely  places." 

In  the  bookcase,  back  of  the  green  silk  cur- 
tain, stood  her  dance  slippers  and  Eskimo 
shoes,  but  in  the  bottom  of  the  bookcase 
lay  a  collection  of  bones  and  old  iron. 

Andrea  got  one  penny  a  pound  for  these  at 
the  junkshop. 

And  so  Andrea  found  a  way  in  all  innocence. 

She  lay  playing  with  a  couple  of  heather- 
tufts  that  the  washerwoman's  little  boy  had 
brought  her.  They  were  from  the  "Rolling 
Hill,"  where  Andrea  every  year  picked  wortle- 

[7] 


ANDREA 

berries  in  competition  with  the  Poorhouse 
women,  and  scrambled  round  and  round  — 
alone  —  until  dress  and  petticoats  were  in 
tatters.  Then  she  promised  her  dress  to  the 
one  who  was  poorest ;  but  before  she  gave  it 
away,  the  cook  must  needs  weigh  it.  She 
could  get  five  cents  a  pound  from  "Peter" 
over  at  the  paper-factory. 

Andrea  amused  herself  by  letting  the  dry 
earth  crumble  from  the  roots  down  on  sheet 
and  night-dress. 

"Now,  Musser  —  it  is  surely  soiled,  not.''" 

And  she  let  it  crumble. 

When  the  besmudged  and  bedraggled  little 
girls  came  with  a  half-eaten  candy-stick  or  a 
beautiful  fragment  of  glass  from  the  gutter, 
Andrea  wanted  to  have  them  lifted  up,  and 
they  kissed  her  right  on  the  mouth  —  but 
afterward  her  mother  had  to  wash  her  face. 

Every  time  the  bell  rang,  she  listened  and 
was  jubilant  over  the  many  gifts  that  con- 
tinued to  come. 

[8] 


ANDREA 

"Musser,"  said  she,  "you  do  not  think,  do 
you  that  it  is  because  of  —  ,  you  know  ?" 

The  mother  shook  her  head  and  laughed, 
and  the  child  laughed  with  her.  They  al- 
ways found  occasion  to  laugh,  and  they  both 
knew  that  it  was  the  wisest  way  in  which  to 
chase  the  very  sorrowful  thoughts  from  the 
room. 

"  Because  for  my  birthday  I  received  thirty- 
one  congratulations,  besides  bonbons  and 
gifts!" 

Andrea  lay  and  looked  toward  the  win- 
dow. 

*'Oh  —  bring  me  the  field-glass!'* 

"  What  do  you  want  with  that  .^" 

"I  am  going  to  use  it."  She  pressed  her 
lips  together  and  looked  saucily:  "Inquis- 
itive!" 

The  mother  brought  the  field-glass,  and 
Andrea  slid  it  under  the  cover. 

A  little  later,  when  the  mother  was  out  for 
water,   Andrea  stealthily  brought    it  forth. 

[9] 


ANDREA 

With  a  knowing  smile  she  held  it  before  her 
eyes,  pointed  it  towards  the  window  and 
screwed  it  up  and  down. 

There  ought  to  be  a  gable  with  a  stork's 
nest  —  but  it  was  not  there. 

No  it  was  not  there! 

Quietly  she  dropped  the  field-glass,  folded 
her  hands  and  sighed ;  but  when  the  mother 
came,  her  eyes  were  glad  again. 

"  Do  you  know  —  I  should  really  like  to  go 
to  a  dance  once  more;  just  one  little  dance!" 
And  she  looked  sidewise  down  at  the  light 
blue  night-gown,  that  was  embroidered  with 
silk  flowers  on  the  collar.  And  she  cast  a 
sly  glance  at  the  bows  in  the  two  dark  braids 
that  bound  her  to  the  pillow  like  shining 
chains. 

"I  do  not  know  any  one  who  has  light  blue 
night-gowns,  eh  ?  It  was  droll  that  we  should 
hit  upon  that.  Ah,  yes,  the  way  one  has 
danced,  both  when  one  was  allowed  to,  and 
when  father  became  hot  about  the  ears  be- 
[10] 


ANDREA 
cause  of  it.     And  how  weary  those  little  feet 
are  now!'* 

With  a  great  effort  she  thrust  forth  one  foot. 

"Heavens!  Such  a  lean  little  thing.  It 
was  good  that  I  took  my  dance  in  time,  else  I 
should  have  shaken  the  bed  out  of  joint  with 
my  restlessness  in  these  days.  Is  it  not  so, 
Musser  ?     Don't  you  agree  with  me  ?" 

**  Yes,  of  course  —  but  now  try  to  sleep, 
dear!" 

" Sleep!  So  you  think  I  want  to  sleep  ?  I 
want  to  prattle,  I  do,  and  not  sleep  one  single 
wink.  You  are  surely  not  tired  or  peevish, 
are  you  ?*' 

No,  that  the  mother  was  not. 

The  girl  came  in  with  a  letter.  The  mother 
took  it. 

"It  is  from  Josephine  —  shall  I  read  it  ?" 

But  the  Child  wanted  to  keep  the  letter  un- 
til she  became  well. 

It  was  put  into  her  hands. 

**  Mother  —  one  never    knows  what  lies 
[11] 


ANDREA 

inside  of  two  such  white  walls.  One  might 
become  afraid —  " 

The  mother  laughed. 

"  Josephine  is  not  as  bad  as  she  appears  — 
but  shall  I  not  read  it  ?" 

"  No  —  I  want  to  have  it  for  myself.  I 
will  read  it  myself  —  when  the  eyes  are  en- 
tirely well!" 

She  lay  crumpling  it,  straining  her  eyes  to 
distinguish  the  signature. 

'*It  is  such  a  living  thing,  a  letter!" 

Then  she  put  it  away  from  her. 

"Little  Mother!" 

"Yes—" 

"Will  you  not  do  everything  that  I  ask 
for,  even  though  it  be  stupid,  if  it  is  not  too 
shockingly  expensive  ?" 

The  mother  nodded. 

"  Still  if  it  costs  something,  eh  ?" 

*'  That  you  know  very  well,  little  child !" 

"  Well,  all  right,  then  I  believe  you  and  take 
you  «t  your  word.  I  think  we  ought  to  have 
[12] 


ANDREA 
a  celebration  to-day,  we  three  old  folks.  What 
do  you  say  to  that  ?'* 

"A  celebration?" 

"Yes,  exactly,  a  celebration.  I  want  to 
have  Grandmother  Voldby*s  gold  chain  on 
and  all  the  rings  —  fiddle-faddle,  little  mother, 
my  fingers  are  not  tired  to-day.  Then  you 
make  afternoon-tea  for  yourself  and  father 
with  lady-fingers,  and  an  eggnog  for  me,  real 
white  and  rich.  You  put  on  your  new  waist 
and  comb  the  part  straight  —  remember  that! 
And  then  —  no,  that  you  shall  do  first  of  all 
—  send  word  to  old  Nikolsen  to  come  at 
once  with  his  accordion  and  play  two  hours 
down  in  the  garden.  Two  hours !  Nothing 
but  song  and  dance.  He  does  it  for  twenty- 
five  cents  an  hour.  But  hasten,  my  dear 
Musser,  hasten!** 

She  laughed,  and  the  mother  laughed  with 
her,  kissed  her  on  the  forehead,  and  was  going. 

"  Stop  a  little  —  there  is  no  one  in  the  whole 
wide  world  I  think  so  much  of  as  of  you;  no, 
[13] 


ANDREA 
not  one;  not  a  single  one.     Do  you  hear 
that  ?" 

And  the  mother  was  hardly  out,  before  the 
child  took  the  white  letter,  tore  it  open,  and 
stared  and  stared. 

This  much  she  saw,  that  it  was  only  three 
lines,  a  greeting  and  a  name. 

But  it  disappeared  in  a  mist. 

She  rang.     The  hand  that  rang  the  little 
bell  trembled.     Very   impatiently   she   rang, 
and  continued,  until  the  girl  from  the  kitchen 
came  storming  in. 

"Read,  Anne  —  read,  quickly,  read —  " 

And  Anne  gaped  in  astonishment,  and  Anne 
read. 

"Once  again." 

Anne  read  it  once  more. 

"You  may  go  now  —  it  was  only  that." 

Now  the  words  were  imprinted  in  her  mem- 
ory. 

She  turned  her  shoulders  so  that  her  head 
slid  out  of  place.     Her  neck  pained. 
[14] 


ANDREA 

Very  slowly,  very  softly  she  continued  to 
repeat  the  contents  of  the  letter. 

There  was  in  her  soul  no  thought  beyond  it. 


The  mother  went  through  the  lofty  rooms, 
where  the  plants  stood  and  withered  and 
made  the  air  close  and  oppressive,  for  no  one 
remembered  to  give  them  water. 

She  went  to  the  room  where  the  father  sat 
alone  with  his  sorrow. 

But  outside  of  the  door  she  faltered,  as  was 
always  her  habit  outside  of  his  door. 

He  dropped  the  book,  but  did  not  look  up. 

"What  is  it.?" 

"Andrea  asked  me  to  call!"  She  said  it 
softly  and  humbly.  He  arose,  looked  up,  but 
did  not  look  at  her. 

*'Is  there  —  anything  else  ?" 

"  No  —  not  now.  She  is  so  wonderfully 
[15] 


ANDREA 
well  satisfied.     But  I  know  —  but  I  know  — 
oh,  Karsten,  I  feel  a  great  dread.     You  must 
be  careful.     Andrea  sees,  as  if  she  read  our 
thoughts!" 

"Sees—" 

"I  cannot  endure  it!" 

*'  You  must  accustom  yourself  to  it,  Jutta. 
It  must  be  endured!" 

He  shook  off  the  hand  that  she  had  laid 
on  his  shoulder. 

"Karsten!" 

'*  Could  you  not  spare  me  these  scenes  —  if 
only  during  this  time!" 

Then  she  was  silent. 

Outside  of  the  door  she  took  his  hand. 

"For  her  sake!" 

Hand  in  hand,  and  smiling,  they  went  in  — 
where  the  child  received  them  with  a  smile, 
that  came  from  the  depths  of  her  sorrow  like 
their  own. 

"You  come  so  sweetly;"  she  looked  from 
the  one  to  the  other.     "  You  come  so  sweetly, 
[16] 


ANDREA 

you  two.     But  then  you  have  not  been  here 
for  over  three  hours,  father!" 

He  sat  down  by  her  bed,  and  the  mother 
went  out  again. 

"Real  rich  and  white,  do  you  hear,  Mus- 
ser,"  cried  the  child. 

The  father  asked  how  things  were. 

"Are  you  the  doctor.^" 

"No,  but  then  —  " 

"No,  but  then  you  should  let  the  doctors 
take  care  of  that,  and  look  after  your  boys 
with  their  Greek  and  Latin.  But  as  for  that, 
it  goes  indifferently  well.  That  is  to  say,  for 
the  moment  it  goes  so  remarkably  lovely  that 
we  are  going  to  have  a  celebration.  But, 
then,  tell  me  something!" 

He  told  her  a  little  about  the  school. 

"The  pudden-heads  —  oh,  oh!  Will  you 
have  a  chocolate  pastille  as  large  as  a  dollar .'' 
There  in  the  drawer.     But  give  me  half!" 

The  father  put  it  in  between  her  lips,  and 
she  snapped  it  with  a  smile. 
[17] 


ANDREA 

"  It  is  very  tempting,  I  am  going  to  eat  all 
of  it  —  you  take  another.  But  then  what  will 
our  mother  say  to  that ;  she  has  not  had  any 
at  all,  and  she  has  been  here  the  whole  day. 
She  is  so  awfully  good  to  me,  indeed  she  is, 
so  awfully,  absurdly  good,  that  it  pains  me  to 
think  of  it.  She  surely  sleeps  with  her  eyes 
ajar,  just  to  watch  over  me.  And  she  is  so 
sad,  so  sad.  We  should  really  give  her  some- 
thing for  all  her  goodness  to  us,  should  we 
not  ?  A  silk  waist  ?  When  she  does  not  stoop 
over  she  has  a  very  charming  figure.  Blue  it 
must  be,  of  course,  like  all  the  others.  Shall 
wer 

The  father  promised  it,  and  played  with 
her  hand. 

"  Have  you  seen  how  we  have  dressed  up  ?'* 
She  showed  him  her  rings.  "Do  you  remember 
that  one  ?  That  was  an  uncomfortable  time, 
indeed.  What  a  hubbub  you  made !  and  the 
way  the  doctors  gaped  at  me !  I  can  remember 
I  thought, —  "  if  only  they  do  not  cut_me  open 
[18] 


ANDREA 

like  a  fish  to  see  what  there  is  inside  of  me." 
But  then  you  gave  me  the  ring  so  as  to  lie 
mouse-quiet.  They  were  so  sure  that  I  was 
done  for,  but  they  were  certainly  fooled  that 
time!"     She  laughed  quietly. 

"  That  time—' 

The  father  saw  the  changed  expression. 

**  You  got  that  one  with  the  pearls  for  your 
confirmation!" 

"Yes,  thank  you,  my  dear  master,  we  re- 
member. Only  girl  in  white  silk  with  train. 
And  then  we  had  forgotten  the  garters  at 
home,  ha,  ha!  And  the  stockings  slipped 
down.  I  threatened  Goldsmith  Larsen  with 
all  manner  of  torture.  '  If  you  do  not  induce 
father  to  buy  that  ring,  you  will  never  get 
brooches  to  repair  for  either  Agnes,  Jeannette, 
Edith,  or  me;  so  now  you  know  it.'  And  Lar- 
sen was  obliging  enough,  and  you  were  a  dear, 
stupid  father,  who  jumped  right  into  the  trap !" 

*' Yes,  because  he  had  such  an  awfully  art- 
ful daughter !" 

[19] 


ANDREA 

*'  Well  —  yes,  you  may  say  that,  if  you  will ; 
but  then  I  have  done  worse  things  than  that. 
Shall  I  confide  the  worst  to  you  ?  It  cost  one 
hundred  and  fifty.  That  was  because  of  the 
stone,  you  understand.  But  you  must  not 
dare  to  tell  Musser,  for  she  has  such  scruples. 
She  says  that  I  must  neither  lie  nor  steal. 
Now  do  you  know  any  one  who  neither  lies  nor 
steals.^  Of  course  you  don't,  certainly  not! 
*  Larsen,  mark  the  ring  down  to  fifty  crowns ; 
then  we  buy  it.'  And  Larsen,  he  was  a  sly 
fellow.  *  Why,  father,  have  you  ever  in  your 
life  seen  anything  so  disgracefully  cheap  —  the 
one  who  could  own  such  a  ring ! '  Father  went 
into  the  trap,  and  I  got  the  ring  on  the 
Christmas  tree ;  but  for  eleven  months  Larsen 
shared  half  of  my  pocket-money." 

*'But,  what  is  this  I  hear.^  Then  that 
must  have  been  the  time  you  sold  bones  and 
rags  and  old  iron  ?  " 

"That  was  it,  father.  Heaven  knows,  one 
had  to  find  a  way  out  of  it.  How  I  begged 
[20] 


ANDREA 

Musserfor  soup,  which  is  so  disgusting,  merely 
for  the  sake  of  the  bones.  You  are  not  cross 
on  account  of  the  ring  —  I  tell  you,  I  love 
it  at  least  as  much  as  my  long  nail!" 

"Droll  little  girl  with  the  nail!" 

"Yes,  why  not?  But  can  you  remember 
Lavinia  Fink,  the  beautiful,  —  she  who  had 
no  husband  ?  She  wore  either  raven-black  or 
snow-white  with  green  shoes  and  red  stock- 
ings, and  she  was  so  inexpressibly  lovely  and 
Bohemian.  Her  nails,  however,  were  ever  so 
much  finer  than  mine.  But  then  I  let  one 
grow  out  on  my  big  toe  as  well,  and  that  was 
extra!  Look,  father,  here  it  is;  see  how  it 
glistens.  It  becomes  more  shiny  and  quaint- 
looking,  the  weaker  I  myself  grow." 

The  father  tried  to  jest,  and  promised  her 
small  silk  cases  for  the  nail. 

"Father!" 

"Yes!" 

"Have  you  noticed  the  way  everything 
fades  ?  It's  the  sun ;  but  Anne  insists  that  the 
[21] 


ANDREA 

night-dress  here  is  not  faded ;  and  you  can  see, 
can't  you,  that  it  is  nearly  lavender  ?  That's 
so  —  listen!  there  was  something —  " 

"That—" 

*'  That  you  must  help  me  with.  Oh,  father, 
won't  you  —  teach  me  the  Danish  letters,  but 
in  an  awful  hurry  ?" 

*'  But  tell  me,  what  do  you  want  with  them  ?" 

"Father,  you  must  teach  me  them!" 

"Yes,  yes,  as  soon  as  you  are  better,  you 
can  learn  them  in  two  hours,  surely!" 

"Father,  you  have  promised  it  every  day 
...  if  you  do  not  teach  them  to  me  ...  I 
cannot  die  peacefully." 

She  said  it  very  quietly,  and  held  her  fa- 
ther's eyes  the  while ;  then  she  repeated : 

"Not  peacefully,  then!" 

Perceiving  that  there  was  a  feeling  of  dread 
and  apprehension  over  the  child,  he  gave  his 
word  that  he  would  teach  her  the  Danish 
letters  the  next  day. 

"Father  —  you  must  not  forget  it,  —  you 
[22] 


ANDREA 

must  not,  you  must  not,  both  the  large  and 
small  letters;  just  as  they  wrote  in  the  olden 
days!" 

He  promised  to  remember  the  old-fash- 
ioned characters. 

"But  then  there  was  a  note  I  wanted  to 
write  .  .  .  will  you  help  me  with  it,  father  ? 
I  want  so  very  much  to  write  it  myself,  only 
two  lines.  That  I  can  do,  I  am  sure,  with 
big,  big  letters,  can't  I  .^ " 

*'  Andrea,  little  girl  —  the  doctor  says — " 

"If  you  will  not,  then  you  will  not.  I  can 
count  the  spots  on  the  curtain  and  the  butter- 
flies from  here.  I  am  not  altogether  blind  yet. 
But  then  we'll  talk  no  more  about  that.  If 
only  I  were  up;  if  only  I  were  up!" 

Suddenly  she  threw  the  cover  about  her 
and  said  in  a  voice  that  bubbled  over  with 
laughter;  *'  Then  I  would  surely  amuse  you ! " 

The  maid  came  in  with  a  coarse  paper  bag 
for  Andrea. 

"  Now  what  can  it  be  ?"  She  stretched  out 
[23] 


ANDREA 

her  hands.  The  father  took  the  bag,  opened 
it,  and  began  to  laugh. 

"  Who  is  it  from,  Anne  .^" 

*'  It  was  a  sailor,  or  some  one  of  that  kind, 
who  said  that  it  was  for  our  sick  lady." 

The  father  emptied  the  bag  —  ship's-crack- 
ers  as  big  as  soup  plates.  They  smelled 
mouldy. 

But  Andrea  said,  coyly:  "Let  me  taste  — 
they  are  from  my  sweetheart!" 

"Oh,  so  that  is  it;  yes,  I  suppose  you  have 
many  sweethearts  ?"" 

"Only  one  and  a  half,  father,  one  and  a 
half ;  and  then  you :  but  this  is  from  the  one !" 

"Not  from  the  half.?" 

"  No  —  from  my  real  sweetheart!" 

"Which  one  is  that.?" 

"  The  one  with  the  crackers.  He  is  a  sailor 
and  has  curly  hair,  and  only  one  ear,  and  a 
red-muffler  around  his  neck." 

"How  my  little  girl  talks!" 

"  Why,  father,  it  is  true.  I  will  tell  you  all. 
[24] 


ANDREA 

But  you  must  not  laugh,  nor  become  grieved, 
nor  get  angry,  will  you  ?     It  is  a  great  secret !" 

*'I  am  all  ears!" 

"Then  put  your  ear  close  down  to  me,  and 
I'll  whisper  it  to  you.  It  was  last  year,  when 
I  was  out  rowing.  He  sat  and  played  the  ac- 
cordion up  on  the  deck  of  the  ship.  And  one 
evening  he  did  not  play,  but  stood  and  munch- 
ed crackers,  and  I  was  very  flippant,  you 
know.  'Give  me  one,  too,'  I  cried;  and  he 
threw  one  down  to  me,  and  then  we  became 
good  friends.  I  saw  his  sleeping-room,  and 
I  assure  you,  father,  that  it  was  no  larger  than 
a  bed  —  and  there  lay  two,  one  above  the 
other,  on  shelves;  upon  my  word  they  did. 
Ugh!  He  certainly  is  not  handsome.  But 
this  year  he  came  back ;  and  he  had  broken  his 
leg  over  in  England,  and  was  so  sad.  You 
are  not  angry,  are  you,  father  ?  " 

"No,  no  —  what  else .^" 

"Yes  —  then  I   promised   to  marry  him, 
when  I  am  twenty  years  old,  and  he  is  captain 
[25] 


ANDREA 
of  a  vessel.  I  do  not  care  the  least  bit  more 
for  him  than  for  the  man  without  a  nose  down 
on  the  wharf  —  but  then  he  has  no  one  who 
cares  for  him.  And  all  that  he  has  seen  in 
foreign  countries!  You  should  just  hear! 
To  be  sure  Pierre  Loti's  little  sailor  was  in- 
deed a  different  and  nicer  fellow.  He  has 
kissed  me  seven  times  — but  not  on  the  mouth, 
of  course;  and  he  has  given  me  his  word,  that 
when  we  are  married,  he  will  still  refrain  from 
kissing  me  on  the  mouth.  It  is  only  you  and 
Musser,  who  may  do  that.  Now  then,  what 
do  you  say .?" 

The  father  kissed  her. 

"  Father  has  nothing  at  all  to  say  when  his 
little  girl  takes  sweethearts  on  her  own  ac- 
count." 

"Well,  now  .  .  .  was  it  .  .  .  was  it  shab- 
by of  me  to  deceive  him,  when  I  knew,  that 
.  .  .  that  I,  .  .  .  you  know  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  Andrea,  it  was  not  at  all  .  .  . 
shabby!" 

[86] 


ANDREA 

"  I  have  not  told  it  to  you  before,  for  sup- 
pose you  had  thought  I  should  get  well,  you 
might  have  give  him  a  raking  over  the  coals ! 
He  would  be  very  happy,  I  can  tell  you,  if  you 
gave  him  my  Chinese-silk  mufflers;  for  he 
thinks  them  most  beautiful.  You  need  not 
say  anything  about  it  to  Musser,  for  she  will 
tell  it  to  all  the  other  ladies,  and  that  we 
cannot  have,  can  we  ?" 

"No,  it  shall  be  between  us  two!" 

"Father,  if  you  whimper,  then  I'll  cry. 
You  must  laugh.  Kiss  me,  little  father,  my 
lovely,  lovely  father.  My  very  loveliest  fa- 
ther. Lay  your  hand  here  on  my  forehead, 
then  we  will  keep  quiet  for  two  minutes. 
So now  look  at  your  watch.  Sh ! . . . .  Sh !  !'* 

He  took  his  watch  out,  and  Andrea  fol- 
lowed the  hands. 

"Ugh,  now  I  can  stand  it  no  longer.  Fa- 
ther, if  now  I  should  become  quite  blind,  it 
would  not  matter  so  much  after  all ;  because 
you  can  tell  me  everything  —  can  you  not  ? 
[27] 


ANDREA 

Cannot  we  two  also  agree  upon  one  pair  of 
eyes,  we  two  ?" 

The  father  could  not  find  words  to  answer. 

Suddenly  she  pressed  her  lips  together  and 
became  ashen  pale. 

"What  was  it.^  What  was  it?  I  was  so 
frightened.  I  am  so  afraid.  It  is  in  here, 
little  father  .   .  .  feel  .   .   .  help  me!" 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  chest,  and  noticed 
the  uneasy  beating  of  her  heart. 

"  And  whatwill  you  do, when  you  are  alone  ? 
what  will  you  do  .  .  .  you  two  .^" 

"Andrea!" 

He  could  not  bear  to  hear  those  words. 

"If  I  keep  quiet,  I  shall  burst.  ...  If  I 
only  knew  one  thing,  —  that  you  were  happy 
together,  with  love  and  little  gifts,  and  five- 
o'clock  tea  every  day.  Musser  is  so  good,  so 
good ;  but  happy,  —  that  she  certainly  is  not. 
It  is  just  as  if  her  eyes  continually  ask  for 
pardon ;  as  if  she  had  done  something  wrong. 
If  you  only  kissed  each  other  every  morning, 
[28] 


ANDREA 

and  .  .  .  yes,  you  should  both  sleep  in  here 
and  think  of  me.  Then,  I  can  tell  you,  she 
would  never  take  morphine  to  make  her  sleep. 
She  could  squeeze  herself  into  my  bed,  and 
you  could  have  hers,  for  it  seems  so  poor  and 
forlorn  now.  You  could  lie  together,  hand  in 
hand  ...  if  only  I  were  sure  of  it,  I  should 
almost  not  be  the  least  bit  afraid  of  ...   " 

"Andrea  ...  we  will  do  everything  that 
you  ask!'* 

"Will  you  .P  Will  you  .P  Inhere  .  .  .  you 
and  Musser  ?  Do  you  dare  say  *  honour  bright' 
on  that  ?  Father,  father,  how  I  love  you !  I 
can  notice  it  far  out  in  my  ribs,  and  there  the 
heart  is  not,  I  am  sure !  If  only  now  I  could 
be  with  you  —  we  three,  all  alone !  May  I  — 
may  I  tell  her  about  it.'*  Gracious,  how 
glad  she'll  be!  It  is  not  a  fib,  is  it.^  You 
are  not  deceiving  me  ?  You  surely  would 
not,  eh  ?  No,  certainly  not.  Thank  you  for 
that,  father.  Oh,  now  I  am  as  light  as  a 
feather!" 

[29] 


ANDREA 

"Tell  me,  Andrea,  is  there  anything  you 
wish  for  very  much  ?'* 

*'  Wish  for,  wish  for  ?  Yes,  God  bless  you, 
to  be  sure  there  is.  First,  a  pair  of  awfully 
strong  spectacles,  awfully,  awfully  strong,  so 
that  I  myself  can  read  my  letters ;  and  then  a 
red  skating  cap  with  a  tiny  gold  bell  in  the  tas- 
sel —  that  is  surely  something  I  have  gotten 
from  a  fairy  tale  .  .  .  but  here  in  the  city  one 
cannot  get  them,  do  you  think  so  ?  And  then 
a  thick,  very,  very  thick,  raw,  red  carrot  to 
munch  —  you  do  not  know  how  I  love  such 
carrots!  Then  there  is  nothing  more,  unless 
.  .  .  yes  .  .  .  lift  me  a  little,  carry  me  a  little ! 
Oh,  father,  carry  me  a  little,  I  am  so  tired  of 
lying  down.     We'll  shut  the  door,  eh  ?" 

*'I  dare  not  —  you  can't  stand  it!" 

*'  Lift  me,  lift  me  a  little  ...  it  will  prob- 
ably be  the  last  time.     Now  that  I  ask  you !" 

Then  the  father  lifted  her  carefully  and 
tenderly,  and  carried  her  in  his  arms  up  and 
down  the  floor,  up  and  down.  She  nestled 
[30] 


ANDREA 
up  to  him,  and  looked  closely  at  everything. 

"This  is  lovely  .  .  .  we  fly,  we  two.  It  re- 
lieves me  somewhat,  when  you  walk  with  me 
like  this.  It  is  as  if  I  were  covered  with 
feathers.   We  two,  father  dear,  we  know  best ! 

Father  .  .  .  there  is  so  much  I  want  to 
have  on  my  own  little  stone,  but  we  will  not 
speak  of  that  now.  In  the  drawer  over  there 
under  the  astrologer's  card,  it  lies.  You  will 
see  to  it,  will  you  not  ?" 

He  nodded  and  kissed  her  on  the  eyes.  She 
became  heavy  in  his  arms,  and  fell  into  a  light 
slumber.  He  could  not  relax  his  hold  on  her, 
and  not  until  she  shivered  from  the  cold  did 
he  lay  her  down ;  and  then  she  awoke  at  once. 

"  Father  —  if  Josephine  sends  a  wreath,  it 
must  not  come  on  my  grave!" 

"Are  you  angry  with  Josephine.^'* 

She  nodded  and  her  eyes  became  big. 

"Father  —  she  has  done  me  harm.  Now, 
remember,  even  though  it  were  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  them  all !" 

[31] 


ANDREA 

The  father  promised  to  remember  all  that 
she  said,  and  never  to  forget  it. 

*'  Father,  tell  me  —  is  it  entirely  impossible  ? 
Yes,  or  no  ?  Then  afterwards  I  will  tell  you 
what  it  is!" 

"What  shall  I  answer?" 

"I  —  no,  of  course!" 

"  Very  well,  then  —  no,  it  is  not  impossible !" 

"  Now  —  there  we  have  caught  a  wise  old 
rat !  That  was  the  best  that  could  ever  hap- 
pen ...  a  little  bit  of  a  fat  lassie,  just  as 
greedy  as  a  puppy;  and  her  name  must  be 
Andrea.    Andrea  shall  be  her  name! 

"What  do  you  mean  now,  child  .^" 

"  Have  I  your  word,  or  have  I  not  ?  It  was 
not  impossible,  you  said  yourself.  How  I 
have  wished  for  it !  She  would  surely  become 
a  paragon  of  strength  and  beauty,  who  could 
both  dance  and  get  married,  and  all  the  rest. 
For  I  know  very  well  all  the  rest :  I  know  much 
more  than  you  think!" 

The  father  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  An- 
[32] 


ANDREA 

drea  drew  a  little  sigh,  but  laughed  right  after, 
so  that  no  one  should  notice  it. 

"What  has  become  of  Nikolsen  and  the 
eggnog  ?  I  am  sleepy.  It  whirls  and  throbs 
inside  of  my  head!" 

And  shortly  after:  "Haven't  you  a  cold 
hand,  father,  an  ice  cold  hand  ?  The  way  it 
swells,  the  way  it  burns  ...  an  ice  cold  hand 
.  .  .  Father,  that  is  the  only  thing  I  care  for. 
Dear  God,  you  ought  not  to  refuse  me  that!" 

The  cramps  were  upon  her.  The  mother 
came,  running.  She  nearly  drove  her  hus- 
band from  the  child's  bed.  He  went  toward 
the  door;  this  was  almost  unendurable. 

But  he  would  not  allow  himself  to  be  forced 
by  the  pain  of  it  to  leave  his  child  now  that  the 
end  was  approaching. 

But  he  had  to  go. 

Down  in  the  garden,  old  Nikolsen  had  be- 
gun to  play  —  a  merry  waltz ;  and  the  mother 
forgot  to  tell  him  to  stop. 

She  knelt  by  the  side  of  her  child  and 
[33] 


ANDREA 
thought:    Is  this,  then,  at  last  the  merciful 
death! 

For  she  had  watched  the  child's  sufferings, 
had  seen  the  dread  in  her  eyes,  had  heard  her 
pitiful  moaning  night  and  day. 

But  it  was  not  death. 

Darkness  fell,  and  night  came  on. 

In  a  room  in  the  farthest  corner  of  the  house, 
the  father  walked  up  and  down.  He  let  his 
fingers  stray  along  the  high  rows  of  the  book- 
shelves, but  the  book  that  could  draw  his 
thoughts  to  it  was  not  there. 

And  he  knew  that  the  heart-suffering  he 
now  experienced  was  as  nothing  to  the  empti- 
ness that  soon  would  envelop  him  whereso- 
ever he  was,  and  wheresoever  he  went. 

For  Andrea  was  in  the  whole  world  the  only 
person  who  had  a  part  in  his  heart.     And  the 
thought  of  the  promise  he  had  given  regarding 
her  mother,  now  came  to  him. 

It  had  come  to  this,  Jutta,  in  his  thoughts, 
was  only  Andrea's  mother. 
[34] 


ANDREA 

He  lighted  a  cigar  and  marvelled  that  it 
would  not  keep  alight.  He  also  marvelled 
that  although  his  child  was  soon  to  leave  him, 
he  was  not  sitting  by  her  bed. 

He  was  alone. 

The  child's  mother  was  there.  She  clung 
to  her  right  ...  as  if  by  Andrea's  bed  there 
was  not  room  for  two.  When  the  one  came, 
the  other  went  out. 

He  turned  the  key  in  both  doors,  seated 
himself  by  the  writing  table,  and  hid  his  face 
in  his  hands. 


Andrea  could  not  speak ;  she  never  could 
after  these  attacks.  It  was  as  if  the  tongue 
stuck  fast  and  became  heavy  in  her  mouth. 
She  could  not  speak ;  but  when  she  moved  her 
lips,  the  mother  moistened  them  with  a  sponge 
dipped  in  wine.  She  lay  with  clear,  express- 
[35] 


ANDREA 

ionless  eyes.  But  there  was  an  apprehensive 
dread  over  her.  The  mother  noticed  it  by  the 
helpless  despair  with  which  she  wrote  and 
wrote  on  the  counterpane  —  wrote  with  those 
thin  fingers. 

The  mother  lit  a  number  of  candles,  and 
placed  them  close  about  the  bed.  Andrea's 
pupils  contracted. 

Then  the  mother  knew  that  this  time  she 
was  not  blind  after  the  attack.  She  held  a 
rose  over  to  her,  and  she  received  the  fragrance 
with  astonishment,  but  evidently  did  not  see 
the  flower. 

The  mother  began  to  sing  little  songs  with 
many  verses  —  her  voice  was  broken  with 
sorrow. 

Now  the  hands  became  quiet;  they  lay  flat 
on  the  sheet  as  if  they  belonged  together,  and 
had  died  together. 

And  the  mother  did  not  take  her  eyes  away 
from  those  hands,  now  that  they  were  at  rest. 

"Go  ...  to  bed  ..  .  Musser!" 
[36] 


ANDREA 

A  softer  sound  was  not  to  be  heard ;  it  was 
more  subdued  than  the  lamp's  quiet  song  and 
the  feeble  sigh  of  the  breathing,  but  with  her 
heart  the  mother  felt  every  word.  Obediently 
she  undressed  herself  for  the  night,  and  crept 
into  the  bed  that  stood  close  to  the  child's. 

Her  eyes  needed  the  solace  of  tears. 

For  a  very  long  time  there  was  a  sorrowful 
silence. 

"Aren't  you  sleeping.^  Are  you  afraid  of 
that  ....    you  know  ....    to-night.'*" 

She  did  not  wait  for  the  mother's  answer. 

"I  have  called  over  a  hundred  times,  and 
called  and  called.  You  did  not  hear  it.  I 
could  not  see,  but  my  eyes  became  cold,  and 
they  were  open,  and  I  could  not  speak  a  word. 
It  swelled  inside  of  me,  and  crawled  so  dis- 
gustingly on  my  tongue.  You  do  not  know 
how  dreadful  it  was.  But  then  I  remembered 
that  I  was  still  here  .  .  .  with  you.  Now, 
isn't  it  odd  that  you  can't  hear  how  it  cries  out 
within  me.^  .  .  .  Oh  dear,  Musser,  do  you 
[37] 


ANDREA 

burn  Christmas  candles  now  ?  Such  an  idea! 
Have  you  no  money  ?  You  might,  at  least,  af- 
ford a  real  candle.   It  is  so  horribly  dark  here!" 

The  mother  let  her  believe  that  it  was 
Christmas  candles,  but  asked  her  to  lie  per- 
fectly quiet,  and  began  a  lullaby  to  bring  her 
into  a  slumber. 

"Yes  but,  yes  but  —  I  must  needs  talk 
while  yet  I  can  ...  so  that  I  may  be  empty. 
Mother  —  afterwards,  what  then,  if  I  am  not 
empty  ?  When  even  one's  own  mother  cannot 
hear  anything!" 

Now  there  were  tears  in  the  voice,  and  the 
mother  hastened  to  comfort  her.  She  assured 
her,  and  insisted  that  a  mother  is  one  with  her 
child,  and  that  nothing  can  separate  them. 

"Yes,  such  things  are  said,  but  they  are  not 
borne  out.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  a  father 
or  mother  who  died  because  their  child  died  ? 
No,  they  eat  every  blessed  day,  and  sleep  and 
talk.  That  about  being  "one"  is  all  nonsense. 
You  do  not  know,  for  instance,  what  I  lay 
[38] 


ANDREA 
here  meditating  about  —  but  then  it  would 
not  be  pleasant,  either,  if  you  did  .  .  .  No 
.  .  .  but  tell  me,  just  for  fun,  how  long  you 
will  be  with  me  every  day  —  one  hour,  two 
hours  ?  Because  I  know  for  a  certainty  that 
one's  thoughts  do  not  cease,  and  I  shall  be 
longing  so  awfully  for  you  —  much,  much 
more,  than  you  for  me.  For  you  have  the 
streets  and  books  and  the  food  and  all  that. 
Now  .  .  .  how  long  ?  In  the  beginning,  three 
hours,  perhaps  ?" 

The  mother  would  not  leave  her  child  either 
by  night  or  day. 

"  Musser,  you  always  make  such  rash  prom- 
ises ;  one  should  never  promise  more  than  one 
can  keep.  And  eat,  you  surely  must,  and 
sleep.  .  .  I  am  only  afraid  that  I  shall  starve; 
it  is  so  awful  to  think  of :  to  starve  .  .  .  But  I 
know  something  about  you,  Musser,  and  it  is 
good  ...  if  only  it  is  true." 

She  was  tired  and  began  to  whisper. 

**  Father  has  said  it  himself  —  it  was  he 
[39] 


ANDREA 

who  thought  of  it  ...  he  will  stay  here  at 
night,  with  you,  every  single  night.  Then 
you  surely  can  go  to  sleep,  can  you  not  ?  And 
do  you  think  he  lies  .^" 

For  a  moment  the  mother  forgot  everything 
else  in  the  thought  of  herself  and  weighed 
word  for  word  what  the  child  was  saying. 
•  But  Andrea  noticed  the  doubt,  and  repeated 
the  promise  time  and  again,  embellished  it, 
coloured  the  words,  laid  her  own  heart's 
meaning  in  it  —  the  mother  must  believe, 
must  be  made  happy. 

"And  then  you  will  surely  get  something 
else  to  do  than  to  sit  by  me !  But  of  that  I  will 
not  say  anything,  father  will  tell  you  that  him- 
self. And  oh!  how  often  I  have  run  off 
from  you,  even  though  you  were  alone!" 

She  sighed. 

"Little  mother,  would  that  there  were  a 
shop  where  they  sold  cold,  cold,  hands. 
Thank  you  .  .  .  no,  yours  are  warm,  too." 

The  tower  clock  struck  two.     Andrea  was 
[40] 


ANDREA 

silent,  and  the  mother  was  silent  with  her;  but 
at  the  stroke  of  the  half  hour  she  moaned. 

*'  Mother  .  .  .  that  was  only  a  half -hour. 
Oh,  how  long  it  was !  If  one  could  only  pluck 
this  thought  out  of  the  head  as  one  pulls  out  a 
tooth  —  if  only  one  could !  Think  of  it ;  you 
are  my  mother,  and  you  cannot  take  one  of 
these  gruesome  thoughts!  You  should  only 
know  how  they  steal  about  inside  of  me.  If 
we  were  rich,  then  you  could  build  a  marble 
tomb;  and  there  I  should  like  to  be.  But, 
mother  .  .  .  mother  ...  I  shall  lie  down 
there  many,  many,  many  hours,  while  you  go 
up  here  and  forget  me!  How  can  you  have 
the  heart  to  do  it!  .  .  .  Nonsense,  Musser,  I 
am  really  not  so  much  afraid,  but  lonely,  yes, 
that  it  surely  will  be  .  .  .  lonely.  Can  you  re- 
member what  we  had  on  the  day  I  became  ten 
years  old  ?  Bread  pudding  with  whipped 
cream,  pan  cakes  with  currant  jelly,  and,  best 
of  all  —  apple  compote.  For  those  were  my 
favourite  dishes.  Don't  you  think  it  is  because 
[41] 


ANDREA 
I  always  ate  mustard  with  a  teaspoon  that  I 
have  such  a  sharp  memory  ?" 

There  was  silence,  but  Andrea  began  again : 
"Why  does  not  father  come?  You  surely 
have  not  quarrelled  ?  Mother,  have  you 
quarrelled  ?" 

The  mother  told  her  that  he  had  gone  to 
bed. 

"Now,  you  know  that  is  not  true.  He 
goes  up  in  his  room  and  waits,  and  waits  for 
something  .  .  .  that  he  is  afraid  of.  Mother, 
is  he  not  a  little  bit  cowardly,  just  a  little  ?'* 

The  mother  answered  "No,"  and  the  child 
whimpered:  "Mother  .  .  .  you  are  so  far 
away!  If  I  make  myself  real  little  and  thin, 
may  I  not  come  over  to  you,  eh  ?  My  bed  is 
so  cold!" 

The  mother  took  her  over  to  herself,  as 
when  she  was  a  little  child  and  lay  on  her 
breast. 

They  wept  so  inaudibly,  that  the  one  was 
not  aware  of  the  other's  weeping. 
[42] 


ANDREA 

"  Hold  me  real  tight,  it  matters  not  if  you 
squeeze  ...  In  a  little  while  it  will  hurt ;  it 
comes  from  deep,  deep  inside  of  me  .  .  .  Be- 
fore, I  used  to  dream  that  some  one  twisted 
a  corkscrew  down  into  my  head,  and  wanted 
to  wrench  it  off  —  now,  it  is  just  as  if  it  were 
sticking  there  .  .  .  Musser,  little  Musser,  I 
really  never  would  have  married,  but  always 
have  remained  with  you  and  earned  money 
besides,  so  that  when  you  became  old  .  .  . 
Even  though  you  were  as  deaf  and  cross 
as  Mistress  Hansen  .  .  .  You  shall  have  all 
the  things  in  my  bureau  drawer,  then  you  will 
have  something  to  adorn  yourself  with,  not  ? 
But  then  you  must  also  dress  every  day  .  .  . 
When  we  haven't  me,  then  you  can  get  so 
many  more  dresses  .  .  .  but  tell  Madame 
Berg  that  she  must  by  all  means  see  to  it 
that  you  do  not  allow  your  right  side  to 
sag!" 

She  laughed  that  little,  embarrassed  laugh 
that  reminded  one  strongly  of  the  mother's. 
[43] 


ANDREA 

*'And  you  must  never  eat  goose-fat  .  .  . 
on  account  of  the  complexion!" 

She  nestled  close  to  the  mother,  and  her 
hands  were  cold. 

"As  soon  ...  as  soon,  as,  you  know 
what  I  mean  .  .  .  Josephine  shall  have  my 
sapphire  ring.  The  same  day  .  .  .  but  not 
before.     It  is  not  necessary  before!" 

"  Do  you  care  so  much  for  Josephine,  then  .^" 

"Yes  ...  so  much  do  I  care  for  Jose- 
phine!" 


[44] 


CHAPTER  TWO 

Toward  the  morning  Andrea  died.  The 
parents  sat  by  her  bed,  torn  with  anguish  and 
fear  by  her  death-struggle. 

What  was  it  that  they  should  *'burn,  for 
God's  sake,  burn  ?  " 

What  was  the  wager  that  Josephine  had 
won?  What  was  the  remorse  that  cried 
forth  from  the  child's  lips .'' 

And  so  imploringly  she  continued  to  ask: 
"Father,  little  father,  teach  me  the  Danish 
letters,  teach  me  them  soon,  teach  me  them 
now!" 

But  the  last  words  were  followed  by  a  smile : 
"Musser,  your  dress  sags:  what  will  father 
say  to  that  ?  " 

And  now  it  was  over,  all  over. 
[45] 


ANDREA 

The  little  clock  continued  to  run,  to  run,  to 
hasten  —  now,  when  there  was  nothing  more 
to  hasten  after. 

The  father  looked  at  his  hands,  that  but  a 
little  while  ago  had  carried  Andrea  to  free  her 
from  the  fear  of  death  that  had  oppressed  her 
as  she  struggled  between  the  white  pillows 
which  she  mistook  for  a  coffin;  but  she  did 
not  know  him. 

He  looked  at  those  hands. 


Again  it  was  night.  There  were  three  in 
the  room,  but  the  one  did  not  breathe. 

The  father  sat  by  Andrea's  bed  and  held 
her  hand  in  his;  but  every  time  he  became 
aware  that  the  hand  was  cold  and  without  life, 
he  shuddered  and  looked  fearfully  aside. 

Over  there,  by  the  lamp,  the  mother  sat  and 
sewed,  stitch  after  stitch,  stitch  after  stitch, 
[46] 


ANDREA 

the  long  white  silk  dress  for  Andrea.  Thus 
she  had  wished  to  have  it.  *'But  Musser 
shall  sew  it  afterwards  —  what  if  it  does  get  a 
little  wrinkled  .'*  And  you  surely  need  not  sew 
the  buttonholes ;  that  is  something  no  one  will 
notice,  eh,  Musser  ?  " 

It  was  one  of  the  promises  that  must  be 
kept. 

The  mother  pricked  her  finger;  the  mother 
thrust  the  needle  through  the  silk,  and  her 
tears  were  mingled  with  the  many  stitches. 
But  he  who  sat  over  there  by  the  child,  he  said 
not  a  word  —  he  did  not  comfort  her  with  the 
slightest  sign.  And  only  when  he  shuddered 
did  she  tremble;  and  she  also  was  reminded 
that  there  was  one  in  the  room  whom  they 
feared  —  Death  was  there. 

That  night  was  long,  so  long  that  the  mother 
forgot  her  tears.  And  then  the  white  silk 
dress  was  finished,  and  he  and  she  carefully 
drew  the  light-blue  nightgown  from  the  child's 
shoulders  and  dressed  her  for  the  coffin.  Still 
[47] 


ANDREA 
they  did  not  speak  to  each  other.  The 
father  lifted  her  up  for  the  last  time  in  his 
arms,  while  the  mother  arranged  the  bier  as 
it  should  be.  There  fell  a  little  sheet  of  paper 
on  the  floor,  which  he  picked  up  and  kept.  He 
recognized  it.  He  had  seen  Andrea  crumple 
it  up,  smooth  it  out,  and  crumple  it  up  again. 
He  hid  this  little  sheet  of  white  paper. 

"  Do  you  remain  here,  Jutta  ?  "  Now  he 
spoke  for  the  first  time. 

*' Shall  I  go  away  —  from  my  child  .^" 
she  said.  Then  he  turned  about  and  went 
out. 


The  mother  had  fallen  deep  into  her  abyss 
of  sorrow,  and  she  cried  out  to  all  the  winds 
for  help.     She  was  near  to  losing  her  reason. 

She  felt  as  only  a  mother  can  feel  —  that 
overpowering  agony  because  the  child,  who 
[48] 


ANDREA 

had  once  by  force  been  taken  from  her  very 
heart,  now  again,  with  ten-fold  greater  force, 
was  torn  from  her. 

They  all  saw  that  her  grief  was  greater  than 
she  could  bear;  and  they  tried,  as  best  they 
could,  to  share  it  with  her,  for  they  also  had 
loved  Andrea. 

They  also  had  loved  Andrea  —  all  those 
who  knew  her.  And  that  which,  with  large, 
uneven  pencil  marks  she  had  written  on 
back  of  the  prescriptions,  was  preserved  with 
the  utmost  care,  as  if  it  were  her  legal  will  and 
testament. 

From  the  time  she  was  brought  into  the 
chapel  the  father  kept  watch  over  her  every 
night.  He  perceived  from  her  death-struggle 
that  this  lay  on  her  mind. 

No,  he  did  not  keep  watch  over  the  empty 
churchyard;  he  stood  there  leaning  against 
the  wall  of  the  chapel  with  his  eyes  open, 
awake  and  thinking. 

In  there  she  lay,  his  little  soul,  "The  child 
I49j 


ANDREA 

with  the  warm,  warm  heart,"  as  Stephen  had 
called  her. 

As  he  stood  there,  he  wondered  that  his 
brother's  words  should  keep  running  through 
his  mind. 

But  the  whole  night  long  it  sang  in  his 
thoughts,  and  welled  over  in  his  eyes:  "The 
child  with  the  warm,  warm  heart!  '* 


[50] 


CHAPTER   THREE 

And  thus  she  was  buried,  as  she  had  desired 
it,  entirely  so.  Old  Nikolsen  was  the  only 
one  omitted,  as  the  sexton  declared  it  would 
be  sacrilege  if  one  permitted  accordion  music 
in  a  holy  churchyard. 

Inside  of  the  cofBn,  between  myrtle  crosses 
and  wreaths  as  small  as  necklaces,  lay  long 
rolls  of  chocolate  pastilles  —  those  that  were 
"like  dollars.'*  These  last  were  brought  by 
the  little  children  who  had  so  often  received 
small  gifts  from  Andrea. 

The  soft,  lustrous  coverlet  from  Smyrna, 
that  used  to  lie  on  Andrea's  bed  —  or,  when 
she  played  Harem,  on  the  floor  —  was  now 
wrapped  about  the  coflBn,  so  that  the  earth 
should  not  penetrate  through  the  seams. 
[51] 


ANDREA 

The  grave  was  chosen  towards  the  south, 
because  she  was  so  susceptible  to  cold  and 
such  a  lover  of  the  sun. 

Her  friend  Edith  played  the  violin ;  she  cried 
and  played,  and  the  tones  became  discordant 
and  squeaky,  but  no  one  noticed  it. 
(  Afterwards  Edith  had  to  play  in  the  empty 
home  for  all  the  little  children  who  had  left 
their  games  to  follow  Andrea.  They  were 
given  ginger  cakes  and  lemonade  and  egg- 
nogs,  as  rich  and  white  as  the  cook  was  able 
to  make  them  on  such  a  day. 

There  were  those  among  the  people  of  the 
town  who  called  all  this  mere  mummery,  but 
they  had  not  read  Andrea's  pencil  marks  on 
the  old  prescriptions. 

The  father  had  removed  Josephine's  wreath 
himself  —  it  was  of  pure  white  flowers,  and 
the  most  beautiful  of  them  all.  He  sat  a  long 
time  and  turned  it  about  in  his  hands. 

What  was  meant  by  Harm  ? 

Andrea  wanted  to  have  a  cherry  tree  on  her 
[52] 


ANDREA 

grave  and  many  giant  strawberries,  as  many 
as  there  was  room  for.  But  besides  this  she 
also  wished  that  each  of  her  friends  would 
plant  a  little  flowering  plant  out  by  her.  The 
weeds  must  not  be  taken  away,  and  there 
should  stand  fine,  large,  white  benches,  so 
that  one  might  sit  comfortably  and  long  by 
her. 

The  grave  must  not  be  made  into  a  mound, 
but  should  be  flat,  like  a  greensward. 

There  was  raised  a  little,  white  stone,  and  on 
it  was  written: 

THE  CHILD  WITH  THE  WARM,  WARM  HEART. 


Three  months  later  the  mother,  one  day, 
began  to  look  over  Andrea's  treasures. 

At  first  she  had  been  unable  to  bear  even  the 
thought  of  parting  with  anything  that  had  be- 
longed to  Andrea. 

[53] 


ANDREA 

The  ring  was  not  sent  to  Josephine. 

Nothing  must  be  disturbed  in  the  child's 
room.  She  cried  out  in  wild  wrath  when,  by 
the  order  of  the  Master,*  the  bedding  was  re- 
moved and  the  empty  bed  covered  over  with 
a  quilt. 

She  would  not  relinquish  her  claim  to  any- 
thing —  not  even  to  the  withered  flowers  nor 
the  empty  medicine  bottles  —  not  a  thing 
would  she  part  with. 

The  mother  stood  in  there;  she  wanted 
to  give  her  sorrow  new  nourishment,  new 
life. 

But  when  she  had  emptied  the  wardrobe  of 
its  contents,  it  was  as  if  she  saw  Andrea's 
half-blind,  reproachful  eyes. 

Terrified,  she  dropped  what  she  held  and 
went  out  of  the  room.  Long  after  she  seemed 
to  hear  Andrea  say,  half  jestingly,  half  offend- 
ed: *'But,  Musser,  what  are  you  about? 
Keep  away  from  my  things! " 

*  The  husband. 

[54] 


ANDREA 

The  next  time,  when  she  overcame  her  fear, 
and  went  in  to  continue  the  arranging  of  the 
things,  she  missed  a  lavender  dress  that  above 
all  the  others  was  the  one  most  dear  to  Andrea. 

She  did  not  know  of  anything  else  to  do 
than  to  go  to  the  child's  father.  The  dress 
must  surely  be  stolen. 

He  regarded  her  with  that  dark,  contemp- 
tuous smile  which,  like  a  cold  blast,  could  fly 
over  his  face. 

*'  Was  it  worth  so  much,  that  dress  ?'* 

She  was  silent  and  timorous,  and  did  not 
understand  what  he  meant ;  but  when  he  gent- 
ly repeated  the  question,  she  answered  that 
it  had  cost  at  least  forty  crowns,  even  though 
it  was  made  at  home. 

He  pulled  out  the  drawer  of  the  writing- 
table,  and  counted  out  four  bank-notes:  "So 
now,  perhaps,  you  will  do  me  the  kindness  not 
to  speak  of  that  theft  any  more! " 

At  the  moment  she  was  tired,  simply  tired. 
And  she  needed  the  money.  Since  Andrea's 
[55] 


ANDREA 

death  it  was  more  diflBcult  than  ever  before  to 
ask  for  money. 

She  took  them  and  went  out. 

But  once  inside  of  Andrea's  room  she  was 
overpowered  with  despair  and  humiliation. 

She  pulled  out  the  bureau  drawers  and  rumx 
maged  among  all  the  foolish  things  the  child 
had  accumulated. 

And  she  found  a  vague  comfort  in  the  be- 
lief that  Andrea  had,  during  her  last  illness, 
been  drawn  more  to  herself  than  to  the  father. 

The  mother  glanced  hastily  now  here,  now 
there,  and  in  everything  she  could  see  Andrea, 
the  clever,  the  capricious. 

The  whole  of  the  small  top  drawer  was 
filled  up  with  papers,  letters,  note-books  and 
writing-books. 

She  picked  up  this  and  that.  This  was  a 
clear  and  concise  account  of  bones,  rags  and 
old  iron,  silk  stockings  and  comfits,  bathing 
tickets  for  dirty  little  children,  whiskey  for 
the  inmates  of  the  poor-house  asylum. 
[56] 


ANDREA 

Andrea  had  a  sense  of  order  only  in  one 
thing.  In  money  matters  she  was  inordinate- 
ly careful.  Even  "two  pennies  omitted  in 
the  column"  was  entered. 

There  were  a  number  of  writing-books  half- 
filled  with  poor  verses,  and  under  the  writing- 
books  two  blue  pamphlets. 

"  Must  be  burnt  unread.  My  father  must 
not  read  them.  Nor  my  mother.  You  must 
NOT.     Andrea." 

It  was  the  Diary. 

The  mother  knew  that  if  she  remained  there 
any  longer  she  would  read  every  word.  And 
she  went  out  so  as  not  to  be  tempted. 

But  out  into  the  night,  when  she  lay  strug- 
gling with  her  sick  thoughts,  she  fetched  the 
"Diary." 

She  turned  over  the  leaves  and  saw  that 
the  last  entries  were  written  with  lead  pencil 
and  scarcely  a  month  before  the  child's 
death. 

She  read : 

[57] 


FROM  THE   DIARY 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

From  the  Diary 

1892. 

I  am  so  lonesome  since  Helen  Simons  died. 
But  I  could  not  help  it. 

All  the  others  cried  so  the  whole  way 
through  the  streets  while  we  strewed  flowers, 
and  I  will  always  keep  the  basket  as  a  remem- 
brance of  Helen's  death.  But  I  thought  it 
was  so  amusing  to  see  the  people  leaning  out 
of  their  windows  and  gaping  after  us.  And  I 
had  Mistress  Page's  big  hat  on,  because  I 
must  needs  have  a  black  one,  and  I  was  com- 
pletely covered  up  by  it  and  could  not  cry. 

I  tried  very  hard,  but  during  the  whole 
time  we  stood  at  the  grave  the  most  funny 
thoughts  came  to  me  —  (that  was  surely  the 
[61] 


ANDREA 
devil  whispering  to  me,  said  Edith;  for  she 
gives  herself  such  airs,  now  that  she  takes 
catechetical  instruction). 

And  they  cried  out  a  lot  of  gibberish  in 
Hebrew,  which  sounded  like  the  parish  spell- 
ing class.  I  had  ten  pieces  of  block  sugar  in 
my  pocket,  but  I  did  not  dare  take  a  bite, 
while  we  were  standing  there.  The  coffin 
was  awfully  lovely  with  pure  white  flowers, 
and  the  sun  shone.  I  thought  so  of  pancakes. 
If  only  it  had  rained,  I  could  perhaps  have 
cried  a  little.  But  I  remember  the  time  when 
Helen  fell  into  the  fountain  with  all  her  clothes 
on,  and  the  Mistress  cried :  '*  She  drowns,  she 
drowns,"  and  we  giggled. 

Jeannette  plucked  me  by  the  sleeve,  and 
said  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself  because 
I  did  not  cry;  but  how  could  I  help  it  ? 

And  the  rabbi  said,  that  she  should  greet 

Father  Abraham,  Isaac  and  Jacob;  and  all 

the  Jewish  gentlemen  cried:  "Also  from  me, 

also  from  me.*'     And  then  it  was  that  I  be- 

[62] 


ANDREA 
gan  to  laugh  so  awfully,  for  I  seemed  to  see 
Helen  knock  on  the  gate  of  Heaven  and  cour- 
tesy and  say:  "They  all  send  their  greeting 
from  home." 

But  they  thought  I  was  taken  sick,  and 
afterwards  I  began  to  cry  most  dreadfully,  but 
that  was  because  of  embarrassment,  and  not 
at  all  on  account  of  Helen. 

Mother  thought  it  was  so  touching  to  see  us 
strewing  flowers,  and  she  wept;  but  father 
said  it  was  nonsense.  They  can  never  agree 
upon  anything. 

But  the  old  Jewish  gentlemen  were  all  sim- 
pering and  snivelling,  and  Simons  has  five 
girls  besides  Helen! 

To-night  I  will  read  in  the  Bible  about  the 
Jews,  for  the  Christians  are  so  frivolous. 

But  when  I  am  going  to  die,  I  will  scrape 
together  a  whole  lot  of  money  and  buy  choco- 
late to  take  with  me  in  the  coflSn.  I  will  beg 
father's  old  clothes,  for  Musser's  are  of  no 
account  when  she  is  through  with  them. 
[63] 


ANDREA 

It  is  very  odd  indeed  that  I  am  going  to  die : 
I  am  so  much  alive;  but  then  it  will  surely  not 
be  before  I  am  twenty,  and  that  leaves  six 
years  and  one  month  —  I  really  do  not  care 
to  live  any  longer  than  that,  for  there  is  so 
much  in  the  world  that  is  sad  and  sorrowful. 

Helen  was  buried  above  her  grandmother, 
but  she  was  like  a  witch  —  ugh,  I  would 
rather  lie  by  a  very  young  girl.  Fiddle-sticks ! 
they  talk  about  Heaven  and  Hell.  For  I  can 
surely  come  into  Heaven  with  mother :  she  is 
so  pious  and  goes  to  church  regularly;  but 
father  .  .  .  that  is  an  impossibility.  What 
should  he  do  in  Heaven  ? 

I  want  to  go  with  my  father. 

Amen ! ! ! 

Father  is  lovely ! ! ! 

That  book  called  "Ghosts"  is  a  strange 
one;  there  is  not  a  single  spectre  in  it;  so  for 
that  matter  father  need  not  have  advised  me 
against  reading  it. 

But  then  it  was  a  sin  that  I  laughed. 
[64] 


ANDREA 

Jan.,  1893. 

As  soon  as  I  become  real  grown-up,  I  will 
go  to  Copenhagen,  which  is  a  wicked  place  for 
a  young  lady  to  live  in. 

I  should  prefer  to  be  an  artist  or  a  poet,  but 
rather  an  artist,  and  paint  the  loveliest  tapes- 
tries ;  for  those  here  in  the  city  are  shockingly 
hideous ;  they  look  like  cotton  goods  and  peas- 
ant-petticoats. 

First,  I  will  paint  a  big,  green  meadow,  with 
the  clear  water  running  through  it,  and  steeple- 
chases for  the  hunt,  and  flying  swallows  that 
eat  insects ;  and  there  shall  be  big  forests  and 
high  mountains,  snow-topped  and  crested 
with  castles,  like  the  curtain  in  the  theatre. 
That  tapestry  shall  be  used  for  a  large  and 
lofty  hall.  Perhaps  Jacobsen,  the  brewer, 
will  buy  it,  for  he  has  more  money  than  the 
king.  But  his  statues  stand  in  another  house. 
Father  says,  they  are  the  best  things  in  Copen- 
hagen, but  I  think  that  the  King's  Square 
must  be  finer. 

[65] 


ANDREA 

Those  houses  that  have  towers  shall  have 
another  kind  of  tapestry:  a  dark  blue,  just 
like  what  you  see  when  you  lie  in  your  bed  at 
night  and  look  out  upon  the  heavens  and  the 
Milky  Way  and  the  stars.  It  seems  to  me  as 
if  they  were  crawling  away  on  a  multitude  of 
little  bits  of  legs. 

Stars  and  golden  bantams  and  butterflies 
are  to  me  the  loveliest  things  in  the  whole 
world.  But  those  people  must  not  laugh 
loud  or  cry  out  or  click  their  heels,  for  then 
they  would  be  out  of  keeping  with  the 
tapestry. 

Tyra  Danebods  Hall  of  Mourning  was 
dark-blue  —  Mother's  gowns  are  always  dark- 
blue;  it  resembles  Sorrow  and  Night  and 
Sadness  —  the  dark-blue.  But  mother  can- 
not help  getting  spots  on  them. 

My  oflSce  shall  be  right  in  the  centre  of 

Prince  Street,  and  when  people  come  to  order 

tapestries  from  me  (for,  of  course,  they  will 

hear  that  mine  are  the  most  beautiful),  then 

[66] 


ANDREA 
I'll  look  them  right  in  the  eyes  until  I  know 
them  by  heart,  and  then  I'll  know  to  a  dot 
what  kind  of  tapestry  will  suit  them. 

Every  person  has  his  colour,  and  that  I  can 
see  by  looking  at  him.  Edith  shall  have  pale 
lavender  and  Josephine  the  deepest  red, 
which  is  redder  than  jelly  —  and  Musser 
should  really  have  something  pale  and  som- 
bre, something  like  hyacinths. 

It  is  very  important  to  know  this,  for  then 
the  rooms  will  be  in  harmony  with  the  people 
who  live  in  them. 

The  poor  shall  not  pay  a  farthing  for  them, 
but  the  rich  shall  pay  a  thousand  crowns  for 
one  tapestry.  Then  I'll  give  Musser  money 
to  go  to  Paris  with,  and  when  she  comes  home 
she'll  be  the  most  beautiful  lady  in  the  whole 
city,  so  that  father  will  gladly  go  out  arm  in 
arm  with  her. 

Father's  room  shall  be  gray,  but  of  the  kind 
that  shines  and  also  looks  like  velvet. 

He  should  have  a  vaulted  ceiling. 
[67] 


ANDREA 

Feb.,  1893. 

Well,  now,  I  have  never  heard  the  like  of 
this !  Lynges'  cook  has  one  father  who  is  a 
lieutenant,  and  one  who  is  a  butler,  and  one 
who  is  a  police  sergeant,  and  one  who  is  a 
baker! 

It  is  written  in  the  church  book. 

She  has  said  to  Edith  that  she  would  swear 
that  it  is  gospel  truth. 

My !  but  that  must  be  strange  —  I  thought 
it  was  possible  to  have  only  one. 

Edith  says  that  she  has  the  red  hair  from 
the  butler,  and  the  flat  nose  from  the  oflScer. 
She  is  proud  of  him,  but  then  he  is  dead. 

Suppose  I  too  had  a  different  father  here 
and  there  round  about  in  the  city !  But  that  is 
quite  impossible.  When  I  hold  my  hands 
around  father's  brow  I  can  feel  that  we  two 
belong  together  just  as  much  as  two  eyes.  He 
can  suffer  the  same  things  as  I,  and  neither 
does  he  eat  beans  nor  meat-soup. 

And  then  I  could  not  touch  any  other  man 
[68] 


ANDREA 

so  —  except,  perhaps,  Uncle  Stephen ;  but 
then  he  is  father's  brother. 

When  he  speaks,  it  is  as  if  a  hand  were  laid 
gently  on  my  head.  Oh,  that  he  would  al- 
ways come  when  I  am  sick,  but  of  course  he 
cannot  know  it  beforehand. 

I  wonder  if  it  is  also  possible  sometimes  to 
have  more  than  one  mother  ?  That  I  could 
believe  more  readily,  for  there  are  many  little 
things  about  mother  which  are  not  like  me. 
She  always  draws  such  a  deep  breath  before 
opening  a  door,  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  some 
one  inside. 

I  will  look  it  up  in  the  big  dictionary.  It 
seems  to  me  that  it  is  only  in  books  that  one 
has  two  parents. 

May,  1893. 
I  would  rather  have  a  headache  and  a  nose- 
bleed every  day.     I  am  so  awfully  afraid. 
And  that  is  because  I  am  so  sick  inside.    Last 
night  I  sat  up  in  bed  and  dared  not  sleep,  and 
[69] 


ANDREA 
my  heart  jumped  up  and  down  just  as  it  does 
when  I  begin  to  be  sick.  It  is  surely  one  of 
the  big  arteries  that  has  burst.  And  mother 
is  not  at  all  nice  to  me ;  she  goes  about  sulky 
and  indifferent. 

She  says  that  it  is  just  as  natural  as  nose- 
bleed. Oh,  yes,  thank  you!  Perhaps  it 
would  also  be  natural  if  suddenly  a  hole 
should  break  in  my  breast  and  the  blood  flow 
out. 

My  hands  have  become  so  white,  and  my 
eyes  and  heart  pain  me  so.  Father  has  given 
me  a  lace  fan,  but  what  shall  I  do  with  that 
when  I  am  going  to  die  ? 

I  would  almost  rather  have  cramps,  for  1 
know  what  that  is.  It  is  queer,  but  I  cannot 
keep  from  thinking  of  giving  birth  to  children. 

I  should  like  to  run  away  from  myself,  the 
whole  thing  is  so  dreary. 

If  only  it  were  the  pulse-artery  on  the  wrist, 
then  one  could  see  it. 

I  would  go  with  mother  to  church  on  Sun- 
[70] 


ANDREA 

day  and  even  dust  her  room,  if  it  would  only 
stop.  Not  even  father  takes  any  notice  of  it; 
he  merely  says  I  must  be  very  quiet. 

But  that  is  the  way  when  one  is  often  sick: 
then  there  is  no  one  who  considers  it  of  any 
account. 


fni 


CHAPTER   FIVE 

June,  1893. 

To-day,  I  read  **  A  Visit"  by  Brandes,  not 
by  Georg,  for  that  is  his  great  brother,  but 
by  Edward.  Father  did  not  want  me  to  read 
it,  because  it  was  not  for  children.  But  I 
understood  it  all,  and  quite  agreed  with  Flo- 
rizel.  I  know  full  well  that  they  kissed  each 
other  in  that  hotel  and  slept  in  the  same  room, 
but  then  he  was  handsome  and  wonderful,  and 
I  think  that  most  likely  I  should  have  done 
the  same  as  Florizel. 

For  just  think  of  sleeping  entirely  alone  in 
a  big,  strange  hotel  ! 

I  am  certain  that  he  talked  like  Uncle  Ste- 
phen, so  sweet  and  low,  like  the  sound  of 
tinkling  sheep  bells  on  a  summer's  eve. 

in] 


ANDREA 

Now,  no  one  shall  call  me  a  child :  why,  in 
olden  days  one  was  often  married  before  one 
was  fifteen  years  old.  Ethel  is  no  more 
grown-up  than  I,  although  she  is  one  year 
and  five  months  older.  And  she  is  stupid 
and  poor  in  reading,  but  she  can  play  most 
exquisitely. 

It  seems  to  me,  after  all,  that  it  was  better 
to  live  when  I  was  quite  young,  then  the 
thoughts  whisked  off  of  themselves. 

Oh!  that  I  were  dead  and  gone.  Then 
they  would  surely  sit  by  my  grave  together, 
hand-in-hand,  and  become  good  friends  again 
—  which  they  must  have  been,  for  otherwise 
they  could  not  have  begotten  me.  For  that 
comes  of  love  alone. 

God !  What  a  stupid  child  I  was  last  year 
when  I  thought  that  one  got  children  simply 
by  thinking  of  one  another.  But  Florizel 
got  a  child,  and  Brandes  forgets  entirely  to 
talk  about  that,  which  was  the  most  embar- 
rassing part  of  it  all. 

[73] 


ANDREA 

It  is  not  to  be  endured.  It  is  as  if  they 
were  bartering  for  me :  they  both  want  to  buy 
me. 

Edith's  father  and  mother  sleep  in  one 
room,  of  course,  and  Astra's  parents  also,  and 
Jeannette's ;  and  my  mother  does  not  snore, 
decidedly  not.  I  have  listened  three  times; 
she  sleeps  as  quietly  as  a  mouse.  And  as 
she  does  not  snore,  or  walk  in  her  sleep,  or 
scream  at  night,  why,  father  surely  need  not 
sleep  alone  in  his  own  room. 

It  is  exceedingly  embarrassing  for  me  and 
for  mother,  and  it  looks  so  poor  and  forlorn 
when  one  has  a  husband  and  is  married  to  him. 

Ethel  says  that  is  the  way  one  does  if  one 
wants  to  avoid  having  many  children,  and 
that  may  be  true;  but,  then,  we  have  only  me, 
and  two  —  three  more  would  certainly  not 
matter.  The  riding-master  should  have  moved 
up  into  the  attic  long  ago,  then  he  would  sure- 
ly have  had  five  children  less,  and  then  they 
need  not  eat  bare  bread. 
[74] 


ANDREA 

If  only  mother  would  remember  to  have  her 
hair  parted  straight,  and  to  keep  her  collar 
from  slipping  up,  and  to  have  the  glasses  nice- 
ly polished ;  for  such  things  vex  Ethel's  father 
also.  And  as  for  me,  my  wife  might  just  as 
well  have  her  hair  parted  wrong,  and  I  had 
just  as  leave  wipe  the  glass  with  my  napkin. 
The  other  day  I  parted  my  hair  outrage- 
ously crooked  on  purpose,  but  father  simply 
laughed,  and  did  not  scold  in  the  least. 

Mother  is  a  real  popinjay,  but  father  might 
be  a  little  in  love  with  her,  anyway,  and  kiss 
her  on  the  hand.  That  is  the  most  charming 
thing  possible.  And  she  is,  I  am  sure,  very 
much  in  love  with  him. 

But  I  cannot  bear  always  to  have  her 
questioning  me  as  to  what  we  talk  about  on 
our  little  excursions,  for  there  really  is  not 
anything  to  tell,  especially  when  we  do  not 
speak  a  word,  but  only  run  pell-mell  out 
over  the  country  road. 

Father  is  distinguished  and  proud  and  all 
[76] 


ANDREA 
that,  but  mother  looks  like  Limping  Mary 
when  she  begs  old  clothes.  And  I  will  never 
have  confidential  friends  when  I  am  married, 
for  my  husband  surely  will  not  like  that,  and 
besides  it  is  somewhat  common. 

That  Edward  Brandes  must  surely  resem- 
ble my  father,  except  that  he,  of  course,  has 
an  awruUy  big  nose  like  the  old  Jewish  gentle- 
men here  in  the  city;  but  if  father  wanted 
to,  he  could  easily  write  books  like  that  about 
remarkable  people,  the  reading  of  which 
makes  one  wise. 

And  father  has  surely  experienced  a  great 
deal  in  his  youth ;  but  a  father  will  not  speak 
about  that,  not  even  to  his  own  little  girl, 
which  is  me. 

Sept.,  1893. 

Knud  is  only  a  boy,  but  he  is  so  violent. 

He  said  in  all  seriousness  that  he  would  kill 

me  if  I  did  not  marry  him  in  eight  years, 

when  he  becomes  a  minister.     It  gave  me 

[76] 


ANDREA 

such  a  queer  feeling,  as  if  some  one  had  drawn 
a  red  hot  darning  needle  up  and  down  my 
back.     Ugh ! 

He  said  I  should  be  a  volcano  when  I  am 
twenty  years  old !  Now,  what  can  he  know 
about  that? 

And  besides  I  do  not  care  about  exploding 
mountains  that  are  black,  and  smoke  like  a 
lamp.  No,  he  should  rather  compare  me 
to  a  marble  statue  or  an  alabaster  statue 
that  came  to  life. 

I  will  not  marry  a  minister,  for  he  must  be 
so  serious.  I  will  not  marry  at  all  —  it  is  not 
necessary.  Uncle  Stephen  is  not  married, 
either. 

Now  how  can  it  be  ?  Ordinarily  I  can  only 
hear  what  people  say;  it  dribbles  along  as 
from  the  spout  of  a  drain  pipe,  just  so;  always 
the  same.  But  what  he  says,  that  I  can  see 
—  the  same  as  if  I  looked  through  coloured 
glass.  It  resembles  a  multitude  of  small  rain- 
bows .  .  .  one  would  think  he  had  a  colour 
[77] 


ANDREA 
box  in  his  mouth.     It  is  sheer  nonsense,  but 
it  is  true,  nevertheless.     And  then  he  speaks 
the  words  so  softly,  as  if  they  were  of  velvet. 

If  Christ  spoke  like  that  to  His  disciples,  I 
can  well  understand  that  they  remembered  it 
and  could  write  it  down.  I  also  could  write 
everything  that  he  has  said  to  me.  That  is 
not  so  much,  of  course;  for  he  talks  mostly 
with  father,  and  is  here  such  a  short  time. 


Sept.,  1893. 
To-day  I  made  the  worst  blunder  possible. 
For  we  had  gone  to  the  pavilion,  and  I  ordered 
chocolate  with  whipped  cream  and  French 
tarts  and  sandwiches,  and  I  did  not  have  a 
cent  to  pay  with.  The  others  thought  that  I 
was  treating  because  it  was  I  who  proposed  it 
—  and  then  we  had  only  seventeen  cents  alto- 
gether. The  waiter  noticed  it  by  our  actions, 
for  he  continued  to  hover  about  our  table,  and 
we  did  not  know  what  we  should  do  for  shame. 
[78] 


ANDREA 

We  ate  and  we  ate,  and  the  food  stuck  in  our 
throats,  and  we  were  fiery  red  in  the  face.  They 
put  the  blame  on  me  .  .  .  but  oh,  dear,  I  was 
hungry,  and  the  sun  shone,  and  then  I  thought 
that  the  others  could  lend  me  the  money. 

At  last  Ethel  and  Jeannette  went  off  to  raise 
the  money,  while  Agnes  and  I  remained  sitting 
there  like  hostages  ;  and  we  must  needs  find 
something  to  do.  So  we  ordered  more  sand- 
wiches ;  and  for  over  an  hour  we  continued  to 
eat  sandwiches.  I  began  to  think  they  would 
never  come  back,  and  Agnes  commenced  to 
whimper  so  that  I  had  to  pinch  her  in  the  arm 
so  that  she  would  not  cry. 

And  then  finally  they  came,  and  we  tipped 
the  waiter  a  whole  crown ;  but  Ethel  was  cross 
because  she  had  been  scolded  so  by  her  father. 
And  the  waiter  stood  and  grinned  at  us. 

And  besides  I  broke  my  hour-glass,  and 
Musser  had  gone  to  bed,  and  father  did  not 
eat  dinner  at  home. 

It  was  a  day  of  misfortunes. 
[79] 


ANDREA 

Oct.,  1893. 

Knud  is  an  absurd  idiot.  He  came  to  bor- 
row my  French  dictionary,  and  down  in  the 
hall  he  kissed  me  on  the  mouth.  I  could 
smell  that  he  had  rubbed  himself  with 
pomade,  or  some  such  servant-girl  stuff. 

Ugh!  it  was  disgusting!  I  would  as  soon 
have  kissed  a  rat.  But  now  he  knows  that  I  do 
not  care  the  least  bit  for  him. 

And  why  does  mother  always  sit  gossiping 
with  those  stupid  ladies  ?  The  way  they  talk 
about  their  husbands!  God  have  mercy  on 
mother  if  she  says  one  single  bad  word  about 
father. 

Then  she  knows  she  irritates  him  with 
those  ladies,  and  he  goes  out  as  soon  as  they 
come  —  and  I  have  to  run  in  and  out  with 
sugar  and  cream. 

"She  resembles  a  Madonna,"  they  say.  I 
could  say,  "Hold  your  tongue,"  to  them. 

They  are  so  vulgar ! 

Something  is  surely  wrong.  Musser  is  as 
[80] 


ANDREA 

melancholy  as  a  rainy  day,  and  they  glower  at 
each  other  in  a  way  to  make  one  tremble.  But 
I  can  get  whatever  I  point  at. 

If  only  I  lived  with  father  one  day  and  with 
mother  the  other,  for  they  are  so  pleasant  each 
by  themselves,  but  when  they  are  together  they 
chill  me  and  make  me  weary  of  it  all. 

They  should  make  a  confidant  of  me.  But 
when  father  and  I  are  alone  I  forget  every- 
thing, for  he  is  so  wise  and  wonderful. 


March,  1894. 
Oh!  that  the  moon  were  entirely  burnt  out, 
or  that  it  would  crack  and  explode.  It  is  the 
only  thing  in  the  whole  world  that  I  hate,  ex- 
cept rats;  and  it  is  just  as  if  it  knew  it.  Even 
though  I  put  myself  far  down  under  the  quilt, 
I  can  notice  it.  It  is  like  a  wicked  spirit;  it 
goes  into  my  head.  It  is  much  worse  than 
fever  and  worse  than  opium.  For  I  know  very 
well  that  I  am  awake  and  that  it  cannot  reach 
[81] 


ANDREA 
me,  but  I   am   so   afraid  of   that    horrible 
light. 

No  matter  what  I  think  of,  I  think  of  some- 
thing else  on  top  of  that,  and  on  top  of  it  all  I 
am  so  afraid  that  I  would  rather  die.  If  it 
were  possible,  and  I  were  not  fifteen  years  old, 
I  should  be  allowed  to  sleep  with  Musser  and 
lie  in  her  bed  —  then  it  would  surely  pass 
away. 

In  all  books  they  say  the  moonlight  is  beau- 
tifuL  No,  the  night  should  be  still  and  peace- 
ful, and  it  is  not  so  when  the  moon  comes.  It 
is  as  if  it  makes  a  noise  that  bewitches  me. 
But  perhaps  that  is  because  I  am  going  to  die 
and  am  really  not  fit  to  live.  If  father  knew 
it,  then  I  believe  he  would  surely  stay  with 
me  the  whole  night,  for  he  cannot  endure  my 
being  sad. 

That  moon  is  of  no  earthly  use;  it  only 

makes  trouble.     And  I  become  so  peevish 

when  it  is  full  moon,  and  say  so  much  that  is 

not  nice.     And  I  dream  such  awful  dreams. 

[82] 


ANDREA 
Now  I  will  close  the  shutters  and  draw  the 
curtain,  but  as  soon  as  I  put  out  the  light  the 
moon  will  come  creeping  in. 

It  is  not  good  to  live  when  one  is  sad  and 
afraid. 

Jttnte,  1894. 

To-day  the  riding-master  came  with  jas- 
mines for  mother,  and  she  was  near  to  faint- 
ing from  the  fragrance,  but  she  continued  to 
stick  her  nose  down  into  them  and  say  that 
they  were  beautiful. 

And  he  looked  at  her  with  saucer-eyes,  like 
the  big  dog,  and  she  laughed  in  that  embar- 
rassed way  —  I  nearly  pitied  them.  But  I 
could  not  restrain  myself,  and  ran  into  father 
and  said  that  Musser  had  a  tryst,  and  that  we 
must  hit  upon  something. 

Father  was  not  jealous  —  not  in  the  least. 
We  sent  Anne  after  two  huge  ginger-cake 
hearts  with  verses  in  the  centre;  and  then  I 
carried  in  the  tea. 

[83] 


ANDREA 
But  It  was  near  to  becoming  serious. 
Oh,  God !  —  they  acted  as  if  nothing  had 
happened,  and  the  riding-master  began  to 
nibble  his  heart;  but  then  he  read  the  verses, 
and  he  became  confused  and  began  to  cough, 
and  Musser  was  very  busy  smelHng  the  jas- 
mines again. 

Truly  it  was  spiteful,  but  it  was  so  laugha- 
ble. He  is  as  infatuated  with  her  as  if  he 
were  a  young  man.  And  then  he  has  eight 
chubby  children. 

Now  I  am  sorry  for  it,  for  afterwards  Musser 
cried  and  said  it  was  a  sin,  as  the  riding-mas- 
ter is  a  poor,  wretched  man. 

But  then  he  should  not  use  his  money 
with  which  to  buy  flowers  for  other  men's 
wives.  Father  never  buys  flowers  for  his  \ 
wife  .  .  .  but  neither  does  he  buy  any  for 
Musser.  And  /  get  carnations  every  day,  as 
long  as  they  are  in  bloom.  But,  then,  that  is 
not  nice,  either! 

[Si] 


ANDREA 

We  are  not  good;  we  are  wicked,  all  of  us. 
Now  I  will  no  longer  take  carnations  from 
father  if  he  does  not  also  buy  flowers  for 
mother.     That  is  decided. 

June,  1894. 

Just  to  think  that  I  am  a  moon-baby.  So 
is  mother.  But  not  a  person  knows  what  a 
moon-baby  is,  and  one  must  not  tell  it  to  any 
one,  for  they  only  laugh  and  say  that  it  is  all 
nonsense. 

It  is  so  very  unusual! 

Mother  used  to  cry  at  night,  so  that  Grand- 
mother Voldby  had  to  get  up  and  light  candles 
all  over  the  house,  and  make  coffee  for  her. 
It  is  only  girls;  boys  cannot  be  moon-babies. 

Mother  also  feels  the  moon  shining  on  her 
skin,  even  though  she  closes  her  eyes,  and 
she  says  it  is  as  if  poison  enters  the  blood,  so 
that  the  thoughts  become  sick. 

And  that  is  perfectly  true.  I  lie  and  think 
about  death;  I  can  hear  it,  I  can  feel  it,  I 
[85] 


ANDREA 
can  see  it.    I  believe  Death  sits  up  in  the  moon, 
and  that  is  the  reason  why  I  am  so  afraid. 

How  wonderful  it  must  be  to  dare  to  walk 
in  the  moonlight,  or  to  sit  at  the  window  and 
look  right  out  upon  it,  or  to  meet  it  in  the 
woods.  When  I  was  a  child  I  surely  was  not 
afraid  of  it.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  can  remem- 
ber rowing  out  on  the  river,  and  the  whole 
water  became  white  as  a  lily. 

Mother's  real  mother  was  also  like  that  — 
so  Grandmother  Voldby  has  told  me.  And 
when  she  was  going  to  die,  and  mother  was 
only  three  years  old,  she  sprang  out  of  bed  and 
shattered  the  window-panes  with  her  hands 
because  she  wanted  to  beat  the  moon  to  death. 
But  mother  says  that  it  is  a  disease  to  be  a 
moon-baby.  This  is  just  like  me,  but  then 
mother  never  has  cramps. 

When  Josephine  has  it  she  becomes  so  ma- 
licious, but  we  never  do;  and  she  is  not  afraid 
of  the  moon.  It  is  not  so  pleasant,  after  all, 
to  be  a  girl. 

[86] 


ANDREA 
If  I  could  only  understand  what  the  moon 
can  be  good  for ! 

July,  1894. 

I  want  to  be  a  poet. 

I  decided  upon  it  last  night  and  did  not  go 
to  bed,  but  wrote  verses. 

To  be  sure,  it  is  not  so  very  difficult;  it  is 
much  harder  to  keep  awake  the  whole  night, 
and  the  great  poets  always  wrote  best  at 
night. 

That  is  what  Balzac  did,  but  father  says  he 
drank  a  great  deal  of  coffee,  one  cup  after  the 
other,  without  cream;  and  I  did  not  get  any 
coffee. 

I  stole  up  to  the  attic  and  peeped  out  at  the 
stars,  through  the  window  in  the  roof.  Then 
I  drank  water  and  ate  chocolates,  but  that 
makes  one  sleepy.  I  became  very  cold  tow- 
ards morning. 

Another  night  I  will  go  out  into  the 
woods,  and  walk  out  there  all  alone  —  entirely 
[87] 


ANDREA 

alone  —  all  night.  I  think  out  there  it  must 
be  like  a  dream. 

Perhaps  I  may  also  go  out  into  the  church- 
yard so  as  to  accustom  myself  to  it,  but  I 
cannot  bear  the  odour  of  dead  bodies. 

It  is  best  for  me  to  wait  four  years,  until  I 
am  twenty ;  for  a  poet  must  have  experienced 
a  great  deal.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  it 
might  be  easier  to  hit  upon  something  thrill- 
ing, and  so  be  saved  all  the  trouble  of  living 
through  so  many  experiences.  And  Uncle 
Stephen  says  that  one  only  lives  to  experience 
sorrow. 

As  for  that,  I  could  easily  write  a  romance 
about  Josephine,  or  a  play  about  father  and 
mother,  but  that  would  be  something  to  weep 
over. 

Father  has  told  me  that  De  Maupassant 
waited  ten  years  before  he  made  a  book; 
and  every  day  he  went  to  school  to  the 
man  who  created  Madam  Bovary,  whom 
father  loves.  But  he  is  too  difficult  for  me 
[88] 


ANDREA 
in   French.      I  cannot    afford    to    wait   ten 
years. 

But  father  and  mother  shall  not  suspect 
that  I  know  I  am  soon  to  die.  That  would  be 
a  sin. 

If  only  I  could  place  the  semicolon  and  ex- 
clamation mark  where  they  should  be ;  for  that 
is  not  easy,  and  one  must  needs  know  that. 
Father   says  my  commas  are  good  enough. 

In  four  years,  when  every  one  least  expects 
it,  there  will  come  a  thick,  thick  book  by  me. 
It  shall  be  called : 

THE   SORROWS 

OF 

ONE 

WHO   IS   DEAD. 

For  I  shall  die  soon  after,  and  if  that  is 
printed  on  the  outside  of  the  book,  with,  per- 
haps, a  little  band  of  mourning,  then  every 
one  in  the  whole  kingdom  of  Denmark,  and 

[89] 


ANDREA 
also  all  the  poets,  will  read  it,  and  father  and 
mother. 

It  shall  be  about  them,  and  be  so  true  that, 
they  will  love  one  another  the  more  for 
the  reading  of  it.  Therein  I  will  tell  how  sad 
I  have  been  every  single  day  as  long  as  I  can 
remember,  because  they  did  not  kiss  one  an- 
other as  one  should  when  one  is  happy.  Then 
mother  will  write  an  anonymous  letter  and 
thank  the  author,  but  I  will  not  betray  myself. 

No,  that  I  will  not. 

One  does  not  earn  very  much  money  by 
being  a  poet,  but  then  perhaps  I  can  paint 
tapestries  besides.  The  money  I  get  for  the 
book  mother  shall  have  for  a  silk  dress;  and 
then  her  teeth  need  filling. 

It  is  stupid  that  I  should  have  such  strong 
teeth  that  the  dentist  only  laughs  at  me  when 
they  are  to  be  looked  after,  and  yet  I  shall 
have  no  use  for  them ;  while  mother,  who  will 
chew  for  many  years,  should  have  such  soft 
teeth. 

[90] 


ANDREA 

August,  1894. 

Motheropens  father's  letters  and  reads  them. 
She  holds  them  over  steaming  water.  I  saw  it 
very  distinctly,  but  I  did  not  say  anything. 

There  is  so  much  that  I  do  not  understand. 

There  is  so  much  sorrow  in  the  world. 

She  probably  has  a  big  debt,  and  father  al- 
ways gets  angry  over  the  bills.  But  even  so,  I 
would  not  open  my  husband's  letters;  I  would 
rather  sell  a  few  silver  spoons,  or  something  of 
that  sort,  to  pay  the  debt  with. 

I  will  be  ever  so  economical  and  never  again 
ask  to  be  taken  out  driving,  and  I  will  gladly 
wear  black  gloves,  for  they  last  much  better 
than  white. 

I  will  indeed  help  my  poor  mother. 

I  wonder  whether  her  mother  was  sad  be- 
cause she  was  born.  For  I  believe  mother 
was  sad  on  account  of  me,  and  that  is  why  I 
have  not  the  strength  to  live. 

No  one  can  become  strong  and  healthy 
where  everything  is  so  dull  and  cheerless. 
[01] 


ANDREA 

And  when  one's  own  mother  sits  still  and 
sighs  and  cannot  sleep  at  night ! 

But  I  will  ask  Dr.  Krarup  for  a  great  deal 
of  morphine  .  .  .  for  I  will  gladly  endure 
pain  if  only  my  mother  can  sleep. 

It  burns  inside  of  my  head  from  all  my 
thinking  and  speculating.  I  believe  they 
would  like  to  cut  me  in  two  .  .  .  but  then  I 
suppose  they  would  not  agree  as  to  who 
should  have  the  head,  and  who  the  feet. 


[92] 


CHAPTER     SIX 

Sept.,  1894. 

I  hate  father!  I  will  not  see  him,  I  will  not 
kiss  him,  I  will  not  sit  by  him  in  the  evenings, 
nor  walk  with  him,  nor  anything. 

He  might  just  as  well  be  real  common.  My 
poor,  dear  little  Musser !  It  is  nauseating  to 
think  of  it  —  those  words  he  uttered.  I  can 
hear  them  repeated  constantly  —  again  and 
again,  again  and  again. 

"Mistress  .  .  .  with  my  mistress  ...  I 
was,  of  course,  with  my  mistress." 

Mother  asked  so  softly:  "Where  were  you 
last  evening,  you  came  home  so  late  .'*  " 

"  I  was,  of  course,  with  my  mistress  — 
where  CISC'*" 

Mother  flung  herself  right  down  on  the  floor 
[93] 


ANDREA 
and  cried  as  I  do  when  I  am  attacked  with 
the  cramps. 

And  then  he  said:  *' Why  didn't  you  follow 
and  see  where  I  went  to  ?  I  expected  that  of 
you!" 

I  pretended  I  was  sleeping,  but  I  could  not 
draw  a  breath,  for  I  feared  I  should  cry. 

But  we  will  run  away  from  him,  to  another 
country,  Musser  and  I.  I  would  rather  eat  a 
spider  than  hear  father  say  that. 

He  has  a  mistress,  one  whom  he  loves. 

And  that  is  why  he  has  moved  out  of  the 
sleeping  room;  and  at  night,  when  it  is  en- 
tirely quiet,  he  goes  out  through  the  dark 
streets  to  her  house,  while  my  mother  lies  here 
at  home  and  weeps.  It  is  so  small  and  com- 
mon, and  not  a  word  has  he  confided  to  me. 

I  have  not  eaten  a  bite  since;  I  would 
rather  starve  to  death.  I  have  locked  and 
bolted  my  door,  and  though  he  knocks  his 
hands  off,  I  will  not  open:  I  will  never 
open. 

[»4] 


ANDREA 

We  will  go  far  away  from  him.  In  a  trice 
I'll  write  a  romance,  and  it  shall  be  called: 
The  Faithless!  and  shall  be  about  him  and 
about  .  .  .  her. 

In  the  innermost  part  of  my  heart  I  hate 
him,  but  inside  of  that  again  I  still  continue 
to  love  him. 

She  must  surely  be  beautiful,  that  lady, 
more  beautiful  than  all  others,  even  than  Jos- 
ephine. But  it  is  strange  that  I  do  not  know 
her. 

Oh!  little  father,  dear,  lovable  little  fa- 
ther ...  if  it  were  only  a  dream,  you  might 
pull  out  all  my  teeth. 

It  only  is  wanting  that  she  kisses  him  on  the 
eyes,  that  only.  Or  that  he  also  gives  her  silk 
stockings  for  Lent  or  Martinsmas. 

But  I  shall  find  her. 

I  shall  smell  of  all  the  ladies,  and  the  one 

who  has  the  fragrance  of  old   roses   about 

her,  like  father's  clothes,  she  it  is.     I  will  spit 

right  in  her  eyes.     No,  that  I  will  not.     I 

[95] 


ANDREA 

will  look  at  her  until  she  sinks  down  on  her 
knees  and  falls  over  in  the  gutter.  Then  she 
can  lie  there,  the  .  .  . 

But  happy  .  .  .  that  I  shall  never  be  any 
more.  And  never  more  shall  we  two  sit 
together  in  the  gloaming  and  dream  aloud, 
and  never  again  shall  we  read  French  to- 
gether. 

But  suppose  he  loves  her  so  much  that  he 
could  easily  do  without  me  ?  And  if  she  were 
like  Josephine  ?  for  Josephine  one  cannot  get 
angry  with! 

I  am  only  a  little  girl,  and  I  shall  soon  die; 
why,  then,  must  I  have  such  a  heavy  sorrow  ? 
I  wish  that  I  might  die  to-night. 

Mother  says  that  I  am  lazy  and  peevish, 
but  I  shall  never  be  so  any  more. 

I  should  so  much  like  to  go  into  her,  but  I 
do  not  know  what  I  could  say. 

For  there  is  nothing  so  terrible  as  a  mis- 
tress. 

[96] 


ANDREA 

Sept.,  1894. 

We  cannot  go  away,  for  Musser  has  no 
money,  and  she  does  not  want  to,  and  I  haven't 
any,  either.  Oh,  what  shall  we  do,  what  shall 
we  do  !  Anne  is  putting  the  clothes  in  the 
wash,  and  Marie  is  baking  cakes  —  they  do 
not  suspect  anything. 

Just  to  think  that  mother  does  not  believe 
that  he  has  a  mistress  —  why,  he  said  it  with 
his  own  mouth.  And  now  they  pretend  that 
they  are  friends.  Father  does  not  cast  down 
his  eyes,  and  he  looks  the  same  as  before.  But 
when  I  look  in  another  direction,  I  notice 
father  furtively  glancing  over  at  me.  I  do  not 
speak  to  him,  and  I  do  not  kiss  him ;  but  when 
we  left  the  table  I  looked  at  him  so  that  it 
pained  in  my  head. 

To-day  he  has  not  been  with  her,  that  is  cer- 
tain, for  I  have  watched  the  whole  day.  And 
I  smell  of  all  his  letters;  but,  of  course,  she 
does  not  dare  to  write. 

Oh,  I  could  wish  that  Musser  would  also 
[97] 


ANDREA 

begin  to  deceive  him,  even  though  it  were 
only  with  the  old  riding-master.  But  if  it 
were  mother  who  had  gotten  herself  a  lover 
whom  she  kissed  —  it  would  not  be  half  so 
dreadful;  for  mother  often  does  something 
that  is  not  quite  right.  She  gossips  about  peo- 
ple, but  father  never  does  that  .  .  .  oh,  my 
poor,  poor  mother,  and  my  dearest,  lovely 
father  ! 

I  cannot  endure  it.  But  I  will  ferret  it  out; 
I'll  search  all  his  drawers  and  take  her  letters 
and  send  them  to  her  in  a  large,  yellow 
envelope,  which  signiiSes  falseness,  and  inside 
I  will  simply  write:  You  are  a  hussy,  and 
we  despise  you,  and  if  you  come  up  to  my 
father  you'll  be  flung  down  stairs. 

Last  night  I  became  sick,  and  I  thought  I 
should  die,  but  I  did  not  care,  for  it  is  all  so 
disagreeable  —  just  as  if  I  had  my  mouth  full 
of  dishwater. 

I  do  not  believe  a  God  really  exists,  and  if 
he  does,  he  is  only  a  wicked  old  man  who 
[98] 


ANDREA 

makes  trouble.    I  have  burnt  my  fine  hymn- 
book. 

Madam  Bovary  may  have  deceived  her 
husband,  but  he  was  mean  and  detestable, 
and  then  it  was  in  a  book,  and  I  admire  her, 
anyway;  no,  it  is  much,  much  worse  when  a 
father  deceives  his  wife. 


Sept.,  1894. 

I  am  so  sorry.  Now  I  will  never  again  make 
fun  of  the  riding-master;  he  is  good,  and  sure- 
ly just  as  unhappy  as  I.  I  had  never  been  to 
see  him,  for  no  one  evejr  goes  there,  as  his  wife 
is  paralyzed ;  and  he  is  poor  because  he  did  not 
become  colonel.  But  I  wanted  him  to  deceive 
father,  and  so  I  went  out  there.  It  was  so  dirty 
and  horrible,  and  they  dried  the  wash  in  the 
dining-room,  and  that  was  because  the  clothes 
were  worn  and  they  were  ashamed  to  hang 
them  out  —  that  I  could  well  see.  And  the 
riding-master  was  all  alone,  busy  making 
[99] 


ANDREA 

gruel;  and  the  children  were  at  school,  except 
the  two  little  ones,  who  were  begrimed  and 
untidy. 

He  was  very  embarrassed,  and  I  began  to 
cry.  But  he  would  not  do  it.  He  said  it 
would  be  a  sin.  But  then  I  said  that  when 
one  was  poor,  one  was  allowed  to  steal.  "  No, 
little  Andrea,  that  one  is  not :  I  am  so  poor 
that  my  soul  and  body  hungers  —  but  to  steal 
and  cheat,  that  I  cannot." 

"Yes,  but,  then,  don't  you  love  Musser.?" 
I  asked. 

"I  sympathize  with  your  mother,  and  she 
sympathizes  with  me ;  we  are  poor,  both  of  us !" 

Mother  surely  is  not  as  poor  as  that;  we 
have  never  starved,  and  she  has  many  fine 
dresses;  but  she  does  not  take  care  of  them, 
and  that  is  why  they  get  shabby  so  quickly, 
which  I  did  not  dare  say. 

And  I  told  him  everything,  and  he  prom- 
ised that  my  secret  should  go  with  him  into 
the  grave. 

[100] 


ANDREA 

He  had  big,  grey  slippers  on,  and  no  collar, 
and  he  clutched  the  soup  spoon  the  whole 
time,  just  as  if  it  were  a  sabre. 

He  was  surely  right  in  saying  that  one  should 
not  steal.  It  smelled  very  badly  there,  and 
not  at  all  as  it  does  at  Seamstress  Hansen's. 

Sept.,  1894. 

Dear  little  Virgin  Mary  !  I  will  thank  thee 
and  bless  thee  and  say  a  prayer  to  thee  every 
single  day  in  my  life.  I  think  I  shall  become 
a  Catholic,  and  I  have  heard  them  singing  so 
wonderfully  in  the  Catholic  Church  to-day. 
And  now  I  have  hung  a  little  red,  everlasting 
lamp  over  my  bed,  which  burns  only  two 
cents'  worth  of  oil  a  day.  And  in  back  of 
it  a  picture  of  a  Madonna  on  the  wall,  and  I 
will  have  a  crucifix  on  my  breast. 

I  will  be  faithful  and  go  to  church  at  least 
twice  a  week,  both  summer  and  winter. 

For  I  am  so  glad  that  one  can  say:  "I  am 
happy  in  my  faith."  Therefore,  I  will  thank 
[101] 


ANDREA 
thee,  thou  good  Virgin  Mary.  Josephine  was 
also  a  Catholic  when  she  was  in  the  cloister  in 
France;  and  that  was  easy  enough,  when  she 
talked  with  nuns  every  day ;  but  now  she  does 
not  care  anything  more  about  it.  But  I  will 
be  faithful  to  it  my  whole  life. 

I  really  did  not  think  in  the  bottom  of  my 
heart  that  father  was  such  a  one.  I  have 
asked  his  pardon  a  thousand  times,  and  I  have 
kissed  the  pillow  upon  which  he  sleeps,  and  I 
have  told  him  about  Knud,  and  that  I  wrote 
a  Diary,  and  that  I  want  to  be  a  poet  —  for  it 
is  so  expensive  to  set  up  a  tapestry  factory. 
But  it  is  all  far  from  enough,  far  from  it. 

I  could  fly  with  joy.  If  it  were  only  winter, 
then  I  could  go  skating ;  but  to-morrow  I  will 
go  with  father  out  into  the  woods,  and  father 
shall  swing  me  a  whole  hour  in  the  big  swing, 
under  the  arbour.  I  feel  to-day  as  one  does 
when  one  swings  high  up  in  the  tree  tops ;  it 
makes  one  shudder,  but  it  is  so  lovely. 

And  I  have  cried  with  joy.     It  is  the  first 
[102] 


ANDREA 
time  I  have  done  it.     It  often  happens  in 
books,  but  I  thought  it  an  invention  of  the 
poets :  but  it  is  the  simple  truth. 

Father  and  I  have  had  a  dance  in  here,  we 
two,  entirely  alone,  and  we  danced  the  Minuet 
(which  father  does  not  know  at  all)  and  drank 
Madeira  far  out  into  the  night.  And  he  surely 
quite  forgot  that  I  must  not  dance  under  any 
considerations. 

It  is  so  wonderful,  that  I  cannot  understand 
that  it  is  really  true.  I  sat  in  here  and  was  so 
disconsolate,  and  then  I  heard  father  go  up  and 
down,  up  and  down,  like  a  guard  on  duty.  It 
was  my  intention  not  to  open  my  door,  not 
even  if  I  had  to  die  of  sorrow.  But  then  it 
became  perfectly  quiet,  and  I  had  not  heard 
father  leave.  My  heart  beat  so  dreadfully, 
and  it  was  as  if  everything  became  black  be- 
fore my  eyes.  And  then  I  had  to  look.  And 
it  was  dark,  but  I  could  hear  father  draw  his 
breath,  so  sadly  and  quiet-like.  And  then  I 
flew  over  to  him  —  I  could  guess  where  he 
[103] 


ANDREA 

sat  —  and  he  took  me  up  and  carried  me,  and 
we  cried  and  we  laughed,  and  we  cried  again, 
and  we  hushed  each  other. 

Father  rocked  me  in  his  arms  as  he  did  when 
I  was  a  Uttle  child.  It  was  wonderful.  It  was 
wonderful.  For  there  is  something  that  is  much 
more  than  love;  that  is  the  way  it  is  with  us. 

So  that  was  all  nothing  but  stupid  talk !  He 
said  it  was  only  something  one  said  when  one 
became  angry,  and  he  will  never  be  angry 
again ;  but  even  if  I  were  very  angry,  I  could 
not  think  of  saying  that  I  had  a  mistress,  or 
that  I  had  killed  some  one. 

But  father  asked  my  forgiveness,  because 
he  had  made  me  so  unhappy.  It  was  almost 
embarrassing. 

I  have  lain  my  ruby  ring  on  his  pillow  with 
two  red  carnations  in  it,  so  that  he  can  smell 
it,  and  he'll  surely  guess  who  it  is  from.  But 
Goldsmith  Larsen  shall  engrave  in  it:  "From 
your  Beloved,"  That  is  me.  That  is  the 
most  delightful  of  all. 

[104] 


ANDREA 

But  we  entirely  forgot  Musser.  It  was  a 
crying  shame  that  we  should  have  forgotten 
her,  but  then  we  did.  And  then  at  last,  when 
we  thought  of  her,  we  peeped  in,  but  she  was 
sleeping;  she  had  probably  taken  a  potion. 

We  are  agreed  that  I  am  to  be  a  Catholic. 
Father  thinks  it  is  beautiful  and  agreeable  — 
but  perhaps  it  is  only  to  humour  me  that  he 
says  so.  And  then  he  would  rather  have  me 
go  to  the  Catholic  Church,  which  is  much 
warmer  in  the  winter,  than  trudge  with 
Musser  up  to  the  cathedral,  where  there  is  a 
draught. 

Unfortunately,  I  do  not  think  I  am  fit  to  be 
pious.  I  have  such  a  desire  to  kick  up  a 
noise  and  to  laugh  out  loud  just  when  I  am 
most  in  the  mood  to  think  of  religion.  But  I 
will  try  to  believe  it  all,  even  though  it  does 
resemble  pirate-romances. 

I  have  father's  handkerchief  next  to  my 
heart.  And  we  presented  mother  with  a  fine 
parasol,  and  we  ate  breakfast  with  her  in  the 
[105] 


ANDREA 

pavilion,  and  she  was  in  high  spirits.  But 
father  and  I,  we  held  each  other's  hands  and 
looked  at  each  other,  and  now  I  am  certain 
that  he  has  not  deceived  us. 

New  Year,  1895. 

Now  I  have  been  up  three  days.  But  I 
like  it  much  better  in  bed. 

Oh,  it  was  so  snug  and  warm!  And  to 
think,  he  travelled  a  whole  night  and  a  day 
down  from  Vienna  just  to  be  with  me  during 
Christmas.  With  me  !  To  be  with  me  during 
Christmas!  A  whole  night  and  a  whole 
day! 

We  can  eat  just  as  many  gingernuts  as 
mother  can  bake  .  .  .  now  ...  as  for  that 
matter,  so  can  she. 

It  is  so  delightful  to  live.  It  is  so  quiet  and 
delightful. 

Now,  I  really  think  that  father  was  jealous 
of  Uncle  Stephen  because  we  had  so  much  to 
talk  about. 

[106] 


ANDREA 

And,  then,  he  holds  my  hands  while  he 
talks. 

It  is  as  if  a  hundred  thousand  little,  white 
bells  were  ringing  round  about  in  the  air  and 
in  my  ears  and  in  my  heart. 

I  should  so  very  much  like  to  see  the  houses 
that  he  builds.  That  must  be  ever  so  much 
finer  than  to  be  a  poet.  Made  entirely  of 
stone — one  on  top  of  the  other — and  they  can 
stand  for  seven  hundred  years,  if  they  are 
well  built.  But  his  hands  are,  nevertheless, 
perfectly  white. 

The  man  who  has  built  all  the  big 
houses  in  Vienna  is  also  Danish,  but  he 
is  dead. 

I  cannot  realize  that  I  have  been  sick  for 
two  months.  But  when  one  has  a  fever  one 
does  not  know  anything.  Oh,  but  now  .  .  . 
now  I  will  live ! 

"For  when  it  comes  again,  then  it  is  all 
over  with  the  little  girl  .  .  .  with  the  warm 
.  .  .  warm  .  .  .  heart!" 
[107] 


ANDREA 

With  the  warTTiy  warm  heart! 
Why  did  he  say  that  ?     What  did  he  mean 
by  that  ? 

February,  1895. 

I  must  not  go  skating. 

I  must  not  dance. 

I  must  not  take  walks  with  Lieutenant 
Dahl. 

I  must  not  drink  wine. 

I  must  not  read. 

I  must  not  write  letters. 

I  must  not  take  gymnastics. 

I  must  not  take  shower  baths. 

I  must  not  jump. 

I  must  not  go  out  in  the  cold. 

I  must  not  wear  silk  stockings. 

I  must  not  draw,  sew,  cry,  cough,  have  a 
pain  in  the  stomach,  catch  a  cold,  go  to  the 
carnival  or  to  the  theatre  —  I  must  not  do 
anything. 

It  is  Dr.  Krarup,  the  horrible,  nasty,  dis- 
[108] 


ANDREA 
gusting  animal  torturer,  Dr.  Krarup,  who  has 
put  it  into  Mussel's  head. 

But  now  I'll  cry  until  I  get  permission. 
Then  they  can't  deny  me  anything. 


(lOQj 


CHAPTER   SEVEN 

July,  1895. 

Josephine  is  to  remain  a  whole  month.    It 
doesn't  matter  if  I  get  sick  afterward.    We 
will  amuse  ourselves  and  have  fun,  and  we'll 
play  comedies  in  the  evening. 

Salome  must  have  looked  like  her,  I  think. 

If  Josephine  wanted  a  head  on  a  silver  plat- 
ter she  would  get  it,  I  am  sure.  No  one  can 
say  no  to  Josephine. 

She  can  do  everything  that  she  wants  to. 
But  she  is  covetous.  She  would  have  all  the 
men  who  exist  infatuated  with  her. 

But  when  she  says  anything  like  that, 
such  a  strange  expression  comes  over  her  face. 
It  is  as  if  the  moon  were  suddenly  shining 
upon  her. 

[110] 


ANDREA 

Yes,  it  makes  me  quite  afraid  and  dizzy. 

She  is  so  very  strong. 

Yesterday  she  bit  me  in  the  neck  because  I 
said  that  I  thought  as  much  of  Uncle  Stephen 
as  of  her.  But  afterwards  she  cried  and  said 
that  I  was  the  only  one  in  the  world  who  cared 
for  her  for  her  own  sake. 

And  yet  father  and  mother  do,  and  many 
others,  in  fact  all  those  who  love  her. 

Josephine  hates  Uncle  Stephen.  She  wishes 
that  he  were  dead. 

It  is  too  bad  that  they  can  not  care  for  one 
another,  the  same  as  I  care  for  them.  But 
Josephine  has  surely  found  out  that  Uncle 
Stephen  called  her  "A  Heartless  Flirt."  It 
is  a  foolish  saying,  "A  Heartless  Flirt." 


July,  1895. 
After  dinner  she  allowed  me  to  read  her 
letters;  she  has  over  two  hundred,  and  they 
lie  all  jumbled  up  in  the  bottom  of  her  trunk. 
[Ill] 


ANDREA 

It  was  terribly  interesting,  but  very  sad. 
There  were  some  who  were  only  twenty  years 
old,  and  one  about  fifty,  and  many,  many 
others.  They  cannot  live  without  her,  and 
they  will  kneel  in  the  dust  at  her  feet. 

Kneel  in  the  dust  at  her  feet ! 

I  have  given  her  two  pairs  of  grey  silk  stock- 
ings, for  there  were  big  holes  in  her  own. 

And  she  has  kissed  every  one  of  them,  but 
one  could  not  guess  that  from  her  mouth.  It 
is  so  little  and  delicate,  and  she  smiles  like  a 
little  girl. 

Her  father  has  whipped  her  many,  many 
times  and  locked  her  in  and  put  her  to 
bed.  And  then  they  have  given  her  noth- 
ing but  milk  and  bread,  the  same  as  their 
dog. 

But  she  also  came  very  near  to  shooting 
herself  —  and  that  is  what  I  would  have 
done. 

But  even  though  they  beat  her  to  death,  she 
cannot  stop. 

[112] 


ANDREA 

When  she  was  a  little  girl  she  lay  at  night 
and  cried,  and  bit  her  pillow  because  she  did 
not  have  any  one  to  kiss. 

She  cannot  stop.  It  is  just  like  me  when  I 
hear  dance  music  and  cannot  keep  from  trip- 
ping in  time  to  the  measure. 

So,  it  is  not  her  fault.  Things  like  that  are 
inherited ;  she  says  so  herself. 

But  the  worst  of  it  is  that  she  does  not  care 
in  the  least  for  them,  and  she  will  not  marry 
one  of  them.  But  she  would  like  to  marry  all 
of  theni. 

She  is  wonderful ;  and,  then,  she  is  so  lovely ! 

In  father's  room  she  is  perfectly  quiet  and 
sits  on  a  footstool  at  his  feet  and  kisses  him  on 
the  hand.  But  father  always  says:  "Stop 
those  tricks,  Josephine:  here  you  are  among 
friends! " 

The  other  day  she  read  the  sermon  to  Mus- 
ser   and   sang  psalms;    but   afterwards   she 
sang  a  ditty  that  sounded  dreadful,  although 
J  do  not  think  I  quite  understood  it. 
[113] 


ANDREA 

July,  1895. 

I  love  Josephine  just  as  she  is. 

She  has  snow-white  hands  and  feet,  but 
otherwise  she  is  sunburnt  all  over.  She  re- 
sembles a  yellow  cat  with  white  paws. 

It  looks  so  comical. 

When  we  have  company  she  courtesies  and 
casts  down  her  eyes,  and  makes  her  voice  so 
soft  and  fine  —  the  colonel's  wife  says  she  re- 
sembles a  lovely  nun.  But,  then,  I  can't 
understand  why  they  say  so  many  bad  things 
about  her. 

Josephine  says  that  she  acts  like  a  magnet 
on  all  men. 

When  one  holds  a  magnet  close  to  the 
nose  it  tickles  as  if  flies  were  crawling 
inside. 

But  when  I  have  a  cold  it  also  tickles  in  my 
nose. 

Josephine  says  that  even  though  they  hate 
her  they  cannot  keep  from  looking  at  her  and 
thinking  of  her. 

[114] 


ANDREA 

But  I  do  not  believe  that  Uncle  Stephen 
thinks  of  her. 

Josephine  says  that  the  man  she  marries 
shall  have  a  scorpion-whip  to  beat  her  with 
when  she  does  anything  wrong. 

Shoemaker  Olesen  whipped  his  wife  with  a 
strap  —  heigh-ho ! 

Josephine  is  different  from  all  the  rest. 

Scorpion-whip!  That  is  surely  the  one 
from  the  Bible  and  the  tortures  of  the  ancient 
Egyptians. 

July, 1895. 

Now  we  have  wagered. 

It  was  not  my  intention.  It  was  not  with  my 
free  will.  But  Josephine  is  so  strong,  so  strong. 

I  would  give  her  the  ring  if  it  might  be 
undone,  but  she  does  not  want  to. 

We  have  wagered  on  a  living  heart  .  .  . 
what  shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do! 

I  have  betrayed  him. 

She  is  going  up  to  greet  him  from  me,  but  I 
[115] 


ANDREA 

must  not  tell  him  about  our  wager.  And  I 
cannot  break  my  word. 

Why  can't  I  do  that  ? 

We  talked  about  him  so  long,  and  it  was 
night,  and  the  moon  shone,  and  then  I  went 
over  to  Josephine  because  I  was  afraid. 

We  discussed  all  his  characteristics. 

And  then  she  said:  *'He  is  not  like  the  rest; 
him  I  will  have." 

If  only  I  had  kept  quiet.  But  I  could  not. 
I  was  so  certain  that  Uncle  Stephen  could 
never  love  her. 

And  now  .  .  .  and  now  he  shall  love  her. 
And  when  she  has  won,  she  is  going  to  marry 
another,  for  Uncle  Stephen  shall  love  her  all 
his  life. 

That  is  Josephine. 

But  she  is  so  strong. 

I  have  said  to  her  that  I  shall  soon  die, 
and  that  it  is  so  awful  to  wager  on  another 
person. 

But  Josephine  says  that  she  dares  wager 
[116] 


ANDREA 

on  Death  and  on  Hell,  for  she  knows  that  she 
will  win. 

Josephine  says  that  her  will  is  warmer  than 
fire,  but  I  am  a  pale  little  thing,  because  I 
am  sick. 

A  pale  little  thing  ...  in  that  she  may  be 
right ;  but  I  have  so  much  sorrow. 

Josephine  knows  everything,  she  can  see 
everything.  She  also  said,  last  night:  "Your 
father  does  not  care  in  the  least  for  your 
mother." 

But  it  gives  me  so  much  pain  to  think  of 
this  and  that. 

We  have  wagered  .  .  . 

August,  1895. 
On  Monday  Uncle  Stephen  comes  to  Den- 
mark.    I  am  so  afraid,  so  afraid  of  Josephine. 
I  dreamt  she  bit  me  in  the  heart  because  I 
cared  the  most  for  him.     And  the  blood  ran 
out.     But  when  I  was  about  to  die  Uncle 
Stephen  came  and  drove  her  away.     But  her 
[117] 


ANDREA 

teeth,  all  her  white,  mouse-like  teeth,  remained 
and  gnawed  at  my  heart. 

I  will  lie  awake  to-night  and  think  so  in- 
tently about  Uncle  Stephen.  And  then  when 
I  can  feel  that  he  thinks  of  me  I  will  tell  him 
all  —  and  he  will  believe  it  is  a  dream. 

Father,  mother,  Uncle  Stephen,  and  Jos- 
ephine .  .  . 

I  am  going  to  die. 

When  she  has  been  up  there,  he'll  surely 
write  a  letter:  "Yes,  I  have  made  a  mistake: 
Josephine  is  entirely  different;  she  is  lovely." 

He  will  come  to  love  her,  but  she'll  marry 
the  man  with  the  scorpion-whip. 

Then  Uncle  Stephen  will  sit  and  shake  his 
head  the  same  as  mother  does,  and  go  around 
in  the  room  looking  for  nothing,  and  lie  awake 
at  night. 

And  that  is  my  fault ;  for  I  have  wagered  on 
his  heart. 

I  have  wagered  on  his  heart. 

A  thought  can  be  so  long  that  it  is  without 
[118] 


ANDREA 

an  end.  I  have  three  thoughts  without  an 
end  —  the  one  twines  about  the  other.  They 
are  three  snakes  that  stick  and  stick  their  ugly 
darts  into  the  peace  of  my  days  and  the  dreams 
of  my  nights.  Three  thoughts  without  an 
end! 

The  one  is  Death,  and  the  other  my  wager, 
and  the  third  .  .  .  the  third,  my  father  and 
mother. 


[IW] 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

August,  1895. 

I  am  not  at  all  afraid  of  dying  here  at  home. 
Here  it  is  so  snug  and  warm,  and  they  are 
constantly  around  me.  I  will  be  brave ;  but 
if  father  weeps  ...  if  father  .  .  . 

Little,  beloved  father,  I  want  to  ask  you 
for  something.  Stay  with  me  the  first  night 
out  there,  only  the  first,  only  the  first.  I  am 
such  a  stranger  out  there,  I  am  so  afraid  that 
they  will  talk  to  me,  all  those  down  there.  It 
is  so  gruesome ;  they  have  nothing  on  but  that 
white  garment,  like  paper.  They  should 
lie  in  a  warm,  fur  cloak,  a  lovely,  warm  fur 
cloak. 

Do  that,  father;  stay  with  me  out  there. 
And  if  the  moon  shines,  then  you  must  talk  to 


ANDREA 
me  the  whole  time,  the  whole  time.     I  am  not 
afraid  to  die,  but  I  am  afraid  of  that  white 
moon,  and  I  am  afraid  of  being  alone  out 
there. 

It  is  much  worse  than  being  alone  in 
a  strange  country.  I  am  certain  that  I  can 
understand  all  that  they  are  lying  think- 
ing of  down  in  the  ground  —  all  the  old 
and  all  the  young  and  all  the  little, 
little  children.  We  can  understand  each 
other,  but  we  cannot  make  one  another 
happy. 

And  then  we  try  to  sleep,  but  we  all  sigh 
uneasily,  and  every  time  the  bells  ring  we  wake 
up  and  weep  again.  It  is  like  a  big  prison- 
house,  and  we  are  shut  in  in  little  bits  of  cells, 
much  smaller  than  those  the  drunken  people 
are  put  in  at  night  over  at  the  jail :  and  I  can 
hear  that  there  is  some  one  on  the  side  of  me, 
and  in  front  of  me,  and  in  back  of  me,  and 
all  over;  but  we  cannot  see  one  another  nor 
touch  each  other. 

[121] 


ANDREA 

August,  1895. 

I  dreamt  that  I  was  dead,  and  it  was  really 
not  so  very  bad. 

Right  on  top  of  my  grave  there  sat  an  old 
man  and  played  the  accordion.  He  was 
blind,  and  he  did  not  know  whether  it  was 
night  or  day,  and  so  he  continued  to  play. 

While  lying  there  I  thought  of  Uncle  Ste- 
phen. 

Oh,  that  there  always  were  such  an  old 
blind  man  who  sat  and  played  for  the  dead, 
day  and  night,  summer  and  winter,  always! 

But  there  is  not.  They  are  forgotten,  and 
they  cannot  forget  —  they  remember  every- 
thing, both  that  which  is  good  and  that  which 
is  wicked. 

When  I  am  sad,  then  a  day  up  here  is  sure- 
ly as  long  as  one  down  there. 

I  wish  that  I  were  able  to  put  the  rest  of  my 
living  days  in  a  bag  and  bring  the  bag  with 
me  down  into  the  ground  so  that  I  might  use 
[122] 


ANDREA 
them  when  it  became  too  lonesome  .  .  .  then 
I  would  gladly  die  to-night. 

But  I  can't  save  a  single  hour,  not  a  minute. 

If  I  only  knew  that  the  thoughts  die,  if  I 
only  knew  it,  or  that  they  sleep.  If  I  only 
knew  that  one  could  not  think  and  that  one 
could  not  be  sad ;  but  no  one  knows  it,  no  one, 
no  one. 

No  one  knows  it,  neither  my  father  nor  my 
mother. 

No  one. 

I  was  out  in  the  churchyard,  but  through 
the  rows  of  flowers,  it  seemed  to  me,  there 
came  such  a  disgusting  odour  from  the  graves. 
There  were  only  two  people  out  there  with  the 
many  hundred  dead.  They  are  alone,  no  one 
has  time  to  be  with  them. 

I  cannot  accustom  myself  to  it. 

Father  read  aloud,  and  Musser  made  an 
eggnog,  and  I  was  mischievous;  for  I  must 
always  be  on  my  guard. 

In  two  years  I  may  go  to  Copenhagen  and 
[123] 


ANDREA 
live  with  Uncle  Stephen,  and  learn  to  build 
houses. 

It  is  nice  of  them  to  promise  it.  But  it  is 
not  nice  to  lie  to  those  who  are  going  to  die. 

How  they  are  deceiving  me!  They  play  a 
comedy  right  before  my  very  eyes. 

They  deceive  me,  because  I  am  going  to  die 
—  and  I  die  because  they  are  deceiving  me. 

But  now  I  have  written  to  my  Grandmother 
Voldby ;  she  is  so  old  that  she  has  surely  for- 
gotten how  to  lie.     I  must  know  the  truth. 

And  now  I  am  so  tired. 

I  have  wagered  on  a  living  heart  —  a  living 
heart. 

Mother  steals  my  morphine ;  every  morning 
she  tells  me  how  lovely  she  has  slept. 

It  will  not  be  long,  I  think,  before  I,  too, 
shall  sleep  lovely  every  night. 

I  am  so  sad !     I  am  so  sad ! 

I  tell  father  I  am  the  happiest  little  girl  in 
[124] 


ANDREA 

the  world.     I  laugh  and  joke  with  him.     We 
deceive  each  other  so  pleasantly. 

My  poor,  wretched  Musser !  And  I  do  not 
know  anything. 

Now,  at  last.  Grandmother  Voldby  has  an- 
swered —  and  I  cannot  read  a  syllable. 

There  was  nothing  more,  but  the  letter  lay 
there. 

The  mother  read : 

Flensborg,  August  20,  1895. 
Dear  child,  dear  little  Andrea! 

I  have  had  many  doubts  as  to  how  thy  letter  should 
be  answered ;  whether  I  am  in  the  right  to  talk  with  thee 
about  thy  parents  behind  their  back. 

Whether  I  should  try  to  tell  thee  everything  in  a 
roundabout  way,  whether  I  should  temper  my  words 
half  with  lies  and  half  with  truth,  or  whether  I  do  not 
rather  owe  it  to  thy  pure  mind  and  thy  ease  of  heart 
to  lie  altogether. 

But  now  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  to  tell 
thee  the  simple  truth  as  I  know  it.  No  more  and 
no  less. 

[125] 


ANDREA 

I  do  not  know  much,  nor  do  I  know  all,  as  they  did 
not  confide  in  me  for  many  years. 

But  old  eyes  see  better  in  the  dark  than  young  ones, 
and  I  have  seen  so  that  I  have  wept. 

The  truth  thou  shalt  know,  because  it  lies  so  heavily 
on  thy  mind,  as  thou  thyself  writest  —  otherwise,  I 
suppose,  thou  wouldst  not  have  called  upon  me  now. 

If  any  one  knows  thy  dear,  faithful  mother,  it  is  I, 
with  whom  she  was  from  her  third  year  to  the  day 
she  went  from  here  with  her  husband. 

Jutta,  thy  mother,  has  always  cared  for  him,  that  I 
saw  at  once ;  but  I  never  suspected  that  he  would  trou- 
ble himself  about  her.  She  was  not  beautiful  in  the 
manner  of  other  girls,  but  he,  on  the  contrary,  was  so 
fascinating  that  ladies  made  court  to  him. 

Jutta  had  now  set  her  heart  on  it  that  he  cared  for 
her,  and  she  became  very  lovely  indeed  from  going 
about  with  this  idea.  She  tripped  about  so  lightly  that 
I  did  not  notice  her  coming  in  or  going  out  of  the  room. 
The  old  women  here  on  the  green  said  that  she  had  eyes 
like  "  God's  Mother  and  the  Queen  of  Hearts"  —  this 
pleased  her  very  much,  and  she  smiled  and  laughed 
constantly.  She  played  me  many  tricks  during  those 
days. 

Thou  hast  surely  noticed,  my  httle  Andrea,  that  there 
is  a  beautiful  tone  in  thy  mother's  voice,  and  that  tone 
was  a  great  pleasure  to  Karsten.     He  liked  to  hear  her 
[126] 


ANDREA 

talk,  but  I  do  not  think  he  Ustened  so  much  to  what  she 
was  saying. 

When  they  met  here  in  the  vacations,  they  were  more 
hke  brother  and  sister  than  lovers. 

They  said  out  there  on  the  green  (now  I  live  inside 
of  the  town  of  Flensborg)  that  he  had  met  another  wo- 
man to  whom  he  had  given  his  heart. 

I  have  my  own  reasons  for  thinking  that  it  was  true. 
Jutta  heard  about  it  and  she  took  it  more  to  heart  than 
she  had  a  right  to,  as  Karsten  had  made  her  no 
promise. 

One  evening  he  came  unexpectedly.  I  saw  by  his 
face  that  something  had  gone  awry  with  him.  We  did 
not  talk  about  what  it  was,  but  he  wept  in  my  arms. 
Jutta  was  out,  and  when  she  came  home  and  saw  him 
she  began  to  cry.     That  evening  they  became  engaged. 

Now  I  know  further,  from  her  own  lips,  that  she 
questioned  Karsten,  until  he,  in  his  weakness  —  be- 
cause, I  suppose,  the  wound  was  still  bleeding  —  al- 
lowed himself  to  be  beguiled  into  confiding  to  her  every- 
thing about  that  other  woman.  But  she  made  him  the 
promise  that  her  name,  and  what  he  had  confided  to  her, 
should  be  entirely  foi^otten  and  without  power  between 
them. 

I  saw  very  clearly  that  Karsten  was  not  in  love  with 
thy  mother;  and  in  order  that  her  life  should  not  be 
spoiled  for  a  momentary  fancy,  I  talked  seriously  to 
[127] 


ANDREA 

him  and  asked  him  to  dissolve  the  bond  before  it  was 
too  late.  Better  that  she  should  cry  a  few  months  than 
for  her  whole  life. 

But  thy  father  assured  me.  He  thought  a  great  deal 
of  thy  mother,  he  said ;  and  her  voice  he  could  not  pos- 
sibly be  without,  so  dear  had  it  become  to  him. 

So  it  was  not  love  that  caused  him  to  take  Jutta  for  a 
wife;  but  I  always  hoped  that  this,  the  strongest  of  all 
passions,  might  grow  up  in  him. 

The  first  time  I  saw  them  together  —  it  was  before 
thou  wert  born  —  I  understood  that  Jutta  had  made  a 
mistake.  She  was  not  artful,  she  did  not  know  the 
little  charms  of  coquetry,  and  I  dared  not  give  her  rules 
that  might  serve  ten,  but  which  would,  perhaps,  prove 
the  destruction  of  the  eleventh. 

Thy  mother  lacked  the  pride  of  a  wife  and  was  not 
clever  enough  to  hide  this  fault.  She  was  obedient 
to  her  husband  and  worshipped  him,  but  she  was 
jealous.  She  belonged  to  that  class  of  women  —who  are 
the  most  numerous  —  whose  only  weapons  are  tears ; 
but  those  tears  were  turned  into  weapons  against  her- 
self. When  she  murmured,  he  became  tired  and  angry ; 
and  from  that  she  also  learned  to  talk  in  anger,  she  who 
during  all  the  years  that  she  was  with  me  was  the  very 
soul  of  gentleness. 

In  such  moments  she  reopened  the  subject  which  she 
had  given  her  promise  never  to  speak  about. 
[128] 


ANDREA 

Lovable,  so  lovable  was  thy  mother  when  she  lived 
under  my  roof;  lovable  was  she  in  her  humility  and  in- 
nocence when  she  went  away  from  here;  lovable  was 
she  in  her  self-sacrifice  to  me,  to  him,  and  to  thee.  It 
is  good  for  thee  to  know  it. 

But  he  did  not  comprehend  that  she  was  sacrificing 
an}i;hing.  His  stiff,  cold,  unbending  nature  filled  her 
with  apprehension;  she  went  about  in  her  own  home 
like  one  proscribed,  without  courage  and  without  a  will. 
One  moment  she  begged  for  his  love,  and  the  next  she 
upbraided  him  with  unjust  accusations. 

Dear  little  Andrea,  little  heart's-child,  forgive  me  if 
I  make  the  tears  come.  I  think  thy  father  is  of  so  cold 
a  nature  that  no  person  will  be  able  to  drive  him  out  of 
that  shell  of  will  and  pride  that  surrounds  his  real  ego. 
That  which  at  one  time  broke  something  in  his  heart 
has  forever  extinguished  the  love-passion  in  him.  Yes, 
I  know  very  well  that  towards  thee  he  is  different ;  but 
then  thou  art;  not  a  person  outside  of  him ;  thou  art  a 
part  of  himself.  But  now  we  are  talking  of  thy  father 
and  mother's  mutual  relations. 

She  no  longer  believed  in  him.  How  it  came  about 
I  cannot  tell,  but  I  suppose  she  plagued  him  with 
jealous  questions,  until  he,  tired  of  answering,  revenged 
himself  simply  by  keeping  quiet.  In  his  silence  and 
in  his  tranquillity  she  imagined  that  which  made  her 
like  one  beside  herself.  She  pondered  many  worthless 
[129] 


ANDREA 

thoughts  and  sank  far  below  her  womanly  dignity. 
She  spied  upon  his  going  out  and  his  coming  in,  cer- 
tain that  he  must  love  another.  In  her  unutterable 
misery  she  did  that  which  made  him  despise  her.  Thy 
poor,  lovable,  broken-hearted  mother! 

Thou  hast  no  right  to  judge  her  for  it,  but  neither 
hast  thou  any  right  to  judge  him.  He  followed  the 
calUngs  of  his  nature ;  she  was  driven  to  go  contrary  to 
hers  —  no  one  was  more  open  and  single-hearted  than 
she.  Thy  mother  had  a  duplicate  made  of  the  key  to 
his  repository  and  searched  all  over  to  find  a  sign  of  his 
faithlessness. 

Had  she  found  something,  it  would  indeed  have  been 
better;  for  then  they  would  each  have  stood  with  his 
great  wrong.  But  she  did  not  find  anything,  for 
there  was  not  anything. 

Another  woman  would  probably  now  have  regained 
her  peace  of  mind  and  remained  silent  as  to  what  had 
happened,  but  that  she  could  not. 

She  confessed  what  she  had  done.  But  he  did  not 
forgive  her;  he  became  embittered  in  his  heart  towards 
her. 

When  I  saw  what  irreparable  sorrow  there  was  in 
thy  house  I  departed,  and  sacrificed  my  love  for  Jutta, 
for  Karsten,  and  for  thee.  I  have  surely  shirked  my 
responsibility  badly;  I  should  have  given  Jutta  a  knowl- 
edge of  life  before  I  sent  her  out  to  Uve  it.  BeHeve  me, 
[130] 


ANDREA 

dear  child,  the  years  that  have  passed  since  last  I  saw 
thee,  have  been  long.  Every  evening  and  every  night, 
it  seems  to  me,  I  can  hear  Jutta's  accusing  voice ;  and  it 
is  full  of  tears.  Hadst  thou  not  existed,  little  child, 
then  I  would  have  used  all  my  authority  as  opposed  to 
Jutta's  lack  of  will,  and  would  have  taken  her  from  the 
place  where  it  was  only  a  degradation  and  a  torture  for 
her  to  remain. 

But  to  thee,  her  only  child,  I  will  say:  "Thou  owest 
it  to  thy  parents  to  give  them  thy  hfe  without  any  res- 
ervation. Thou  canst  bring  them  closer  together  and 
altogether  near  in  friendship,  in  the  friendship  that 
grows  with  the  years  and  lasts  throughout  all  one's  Hfe. 
Without  thee  thy  father's  existence  would  be  pitiably 
barren;  without  thee  thy  mother's  life  would  be  a  curse. 
In  thee,  despite  everything,  they  are  rich. 

I  saw  them  together  one  time  beside  thy  sick-bed, 
when  thou  wert  a  httle  girl ;  then  they  felt  as  one,  and 
their  wishes  were  as  one. 

If  thou  hadst  passed  away  then  I  think  the  sorrow 
would  have  bound  them  together.  But  thou  became 
well  again,  the  good  God  be  praised;  and  thou,  little 
innocent  child,  helped  to  separate  them  again.  Thou 
writest  that  they  both  want  to  have  thee;  but  is  there 
any  sin  in  parents  thinking  they  cannot  do  enough 
for  their  child  ?  They  will  give  and  give  constantly. 
Let  it  not  surprise  thee. 

[131] 


ANDREA 

Now  thou  callest  thyself  big  and  grown-up  —  and 
Jutta  was  not  much  older  when  she  made  her  choice  — 
but,  then,  thou  hast  big  responsibilities  also. 

Every  person  thinks  most  about  himself  until  a  cer- 
tain age,  when  he  feels  himself  poor  in  his  own  posses- 
sion; and  that  is  Nature's  immutable  law.  But  thou 
art  bom  of  a  sad  and  sorrowful  mother;  her  happiness 
lasted  not  even  to  thy  birth,  and  therefore  a  special  law 
applies  to  thee,  and  also  because  thy  life  will  not  be 
long. 

My  Andrea,  Jutta's  little  girl,  if  I  did  not  know,  and 
if  thou  hadst  not  written  that  thou  art  reconciled  with 
that  thought,  I  would  not  mention  it ;  but  thou  sayest 
that  it  does  not  pain  thee  at  all  and  that  thou  art  not 
afraid. 

The  sun  has  surely  cast  its  brightest  rays  for  thee, 
wherever  thou  hast  gone  I  always  hear  thee  laugh 
with  thy  sweet  laughter,  which  reminds  one  of  Jutta; 
yes,  will  you  believe  it,  even  in  thy  long,  sad  letter  I 
found  laughter  —  I  heard  thee  laugh. 

Thy  parents  do  not  know  that  thou  suspectest  thy 
fate :  they  know  not  that  thou  hast  heard  it  sealed  by 
wise  physicians  —  out  of  goodness  thou  remainest 
silent.     But  is  it  just.'*     I  believe  it  is  unjust. 

Thou  complainest  because  thy  parents  try  to  keep 
thee  from  many  of  the  pleasures  which  thou  particular- 
ly wautest  to  have  in  a  full  measure  because  it  is  denied 
[132] 


ANDREA 

thee  to  live  long.  But  that  has  its  great  reason,  and  I 
will  confide  it  to  thee,  for  thy  sake  and  for  theirs. 
Through  thy  mother's  letters  to  me  there  runs  the  same 
fear  and  apprehension.  They  fear  that  some  one  may 
become  dear  to  thee,  dear  to  thy  heart.  Thou  hast 
thyself  discovered  it,  but  think  it  is  from  selfishness, 
because  they  will  not  share  thee  with  any  one. 

No,  my  little  Andrea,  that  is  not  the  reason.  It  is 
thy  life  they  fear  for.  Thy  long  sickness  and  thy  pres- 
ent illness  make  them  fearful  lest  anything  come  to 
bring  thee  more  pain  and  suffering  than  thou  already 
hast.  And  that  is  why  my  little  girl  must  not  enter 
into  wedlock  with  any  man.  They  ought  to  have  told 
thee  long  ago,  as  thou  art  a  wise  little  girl ;  and  when,  of 
course,  thou  flittest  about  with  thy  girl  friends  as  free 
as  little  girls  of  thy  age,  it  seems  to  me  there  is  no 
danger  in  making  thee  acquainted  with  the  truth.  And 
then,  moreover,  thou  writest  that  thou  wilt  agree  to 
everything  if  thou  canst  only  make  thy  parents  perfectly 
happy.  Perfect  happiness  is  not  to  be  theirs,  but  thou 
canst  do  much  to  help,  if  thou  wilt  and  hast  the  strength. 

It  may  happen  that  thou  wilt  come  to  care  for  a  com- 
rade of  thine  own  age  —  one  of  thy  ball  partners  —  for 
a  week  or  a  month,  but  when  thou  knowest  what  thou 
now  knowest,  it  will  not  be  so  hard  for  thee  to  con- 
quer that  feeling  and  to  hide  it  from  thy  parents. 

Now  the  hour  is  close  on  twelve,  and  I,  old  woman 
[133  1 


ANDREA 

that  I  am,  am  wont  to  go  to  bed  when  it  is  nine  o'clock, 
so  my  letter  must  needs  have  an  end.  We  two  will 
never  torture  one  another  by  probing  further  into  what 
has  here  been  made  clear. 

In  thy  beloved  mother's  name  and  for  her  sake,  so 
that  with  all  thy  heart  thou  canst  be  good  to  her,  I  will 
take  upon  myself  the  responsibility  for  the  sorrow  that 
I  am  surely  causing  thee. 

With  my  best  wishes  and  thanks  for  the  confidence 
thou  hast  shown  thy  old  friend, 

Inger  Voldby. 

P.  S.  —  I  hope  that,  now  thou  art  so  big  and  grown- 
up, thou  canst  read  my  old-fashioned  Danish  writing. 
I  cannot  quite  master  the  new  script,  it  is  so  foreign 
to  me. 


[184  J 


CHAPTER  NINE 

The  mother  went  through  the  lofty  rooms, 
where  the  plants  stood  dying,  to  the  room 
where  the  father  sat  alone  with  his  sorrow. 

Her  white  night-dress  fell  to  the  ground  like 
a  shroud.  She  groped  her  way  in  the  dark 
with  outstretched  hands.  Her  hair  had  fallen 
down,  and  her  eyes  burned. 

As  always  in  the  past,  she  faltered  before  the 
door  to  his  room. 

He  did  not  hear  her  enter. 

And  she  saw  him  sitting  in  the  deep  chair 
under  the  lamp.  As  if  it  were  a  doll  or  a  liv- 
ing being,  as  if  it  were  the  child  herself,  there 
lay  in  his  arms  the  lavender  dress,  the  one  that 
was  dearer  to  Andrea  than  all  other  dresses. 

Now  he  looked  up. 

[135] 


ANDREA 

"Jutta." 

She  barely  recognized  the  voice. 

**  What  do  you  want  .  .  .  here  ?  " 

She  answered  by  asking : 

"Are  you  tired,  Karsten  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

*'  I  am  tired,  that  is  why  I  came.  I  am  tired 
unto  death,  Karsten.  And  you  must  help 
me." 

He  arose,  and  the  lavender  dress  remained 
lying  in  the  chair. 

"  Jutta,  if  I  could  help  you,  don't  you  think 
I  should  like  to  very  much  ?  But  no  one  can 
help  you,  and  no  one  can  help  me  —  rather 
go  to  bed,  my  friend,  try  to  sleep.  That  is 
what  the  night  is  for! " 

His  voice  had  not  been  so  mild  since  he 
spoke  endearing  words  to  Andrea  on  her 
death-bed. 

*'  You  yourself,  Karsten,  do  not  go  to  bed, 
for  you  cannot  sleep." 

*'  No,  I  cannot  sleep,  I  think  .  .  ." 
[136] 


ANDREA 

"Karsten,  can  you  forget  ?  " 

*'  If  I  could,  then  I  were  not  myself.  I  can- 
not." 

"  Karsten,  if  I  could  raise  her  up  from  the 
dead,  if  only  for  an  hour  —  could  you  bear  to 
look  her  in  the  face,  could  you  bear  to  hear  her 
voice,  could  you  bear  to  hear  her  weep  ?  " 

He  grasped  her  by  the  wrist. 

*'  Jutta,  are  you  sick  ?  .  .  .  or  do  you  want 
to  torture  me  ?  I  only  ask  for  peace  .  .  .  here 
in  my  loneliness! " 

But  she  looked  him  in  the  eyes,  and  it  was 
as  if  he  would  sink  down  under  that  glance. 

"  In  a  little  while,  in  a  little  while  you  shall 
have  peace.  You  shall  be  as  lonely  as  you 
wish.  In  a  little  while.  But  you  shall  see 
Andrea,  hear  her  laugh,  hear  her  weep.  After- 
wards, I'll  go  —  to  the  one  person  who  has 
forgiveness  for  me  ...  to  the  07ily  person 
who  knows  what  I  have  suffered  in  those  years, 
in  the  many,  many  years! " 

"Jutta  .  .  .  say  what  you  mean;  do  not 
[137] 


ANDREA 

talk  like  one  who  walks  in  her  sleep.  I  can- 
not wake  you  ...  I  cannot  make  you  happy. 
But  what  is  it  ?  where  will  you  go  to  .^ " 

"  Only  away  from  you,  who  took  my  child's 
love,  even  though  she  saw  how  I  struggled. 
Only  away  from  you  .  .  ." 

He  had  covered  his  eyes  with  one  hand  and 
he  asked,  and  there  was  a  dread  in  his  voice: 

"  Don't  you  think  I  am  lonesome  enough  ?'* 

But  she  answered : 

"When  two  persons  are  together  and  are 
lonesome,  they  will  be  less  lonesome  if  each 
goes  his  way! " 

"Jutta  .  .  .  I  am  very  lonesome,  now,  but 
shall  be  more  lonesome  if  you  leave  me!  " 

But  she  wrung  her  hands. 

"Why  do  you  hold  me  back  now  —  now, 
that  I  have  the  courage  to  leave  you  ?  " 

"Because  —  I  am  afraid  of  the  loneliness." 

But  she  did  not  believe  him. 

"Is  it  the  people  round  about  here  whom  I 
visit,  and  on  whose  account  you  scorn  me, 
[138] 


ANDREA 
those  upon  whom  you  always  cast  your  con- 
tempt? ...  is  it  they  that  you  are  afraid 
of.?" 

*' People  .  .  .  don't  you  know  me  better, 
that  you  think  others  are  in  my  thoughts  ?  " 

"  Is  it  out  of  pity  toward  me  ?  .  .  .  then  it  is 
too  late!" 

He  looked  down  at  the  floor;  her  eyes  also 
were  lowered. 

"  Jutta,  I  have  pity  on  you,  because  your  life 
did  not  become  what  it  should  —  and  on  my- 
self, because  I  allowed  my  own  to  become  so 
barren!" 

'*  Yours  was  the  fault !  " 

"Ah,  yes  —  that  it  was,  I  suppose.  But 
why  dispute  about  that  now  ?  we  two  have 
made  up  our  reckoning  so  often,  so  cruelly 
often  —  and  what  did  it  profit  us  ?  " 

"  Yours  was  the  fault !  Does  there  exist 
a  guilt  so  great  that  one  person  has  a  right  to 
refuse  another  forgiveness  ?  " 

**  Right  .  .  .  does  one  think  of  that  ?  " 
[139] 


ANDREA 

"I  was  a  human  being  of  flesh  and  blood, 
with  a  thousand  desires  that  cried  out  to  you 
—  do  you  know  that  ?    Did  you  know  that  ?  " 

*'Jutta  .  .  .  it  is  night  now ;  spare  yourself , 
spare  me!" 

"  Yes,  in  a  little  while  I'll  go ;  you  shall  only 
see  Andrea  and  hear  her  weep  —  you,  whom 
she  loved  above  all!  " 

The  mother  fetched  the  blue  pamphlets. 

She  gave  them  to  him  with  the  words : 

"Unto  those  who  have  much,  shall  much 
be  given  —  from  those  who  have  little,  shall 
everything  be  taken  away!  " 

The  father  took  the  pamphlets  and  held 
them  between  his  hands  as  if  it  were  the  child's 
head  he  were  holding.  He  asked  in  an  uncer- 
tain voice: 

*' Are  you  going  to  remain  ...  in  here  ?  " 

"Shall  I  leave  my  child?" 

Then  he  was  silent  and  began  to  read. 

The  mother  held  his  face  with  her  eyes. 

She  asked : 

[140] 


ANDREA 

**  Can  you  see  Andrea  ?  " 

*'  Can  you  hear  her  laugh  ? '" 

"  Can  you  hear  her  weep  ?  " 

At  last  she  only  asked : 

*'  Can  you  hear  her  weep  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer;  he  did  not  know  she 
spoke  to  him.  He  read.  Now  and  then  he 
stopped,  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead, 
sighed,  and  went  on  again. 

"  So  little  did  I  know  her  .  .  ." 

"  So  poor  am  I,"  said  the  mother. 

"We  have  tortured  her  .  .  ." 

*'  So  poor  am  I !  '* 

"So  poor  are  we^  Jutta,  that  we  have  tor- 
tured our  child  in  her  hour  of  death!  " 

The  mother  took  his  hand. 

"Karsten,  now  it  is  all  over.  It  seems  to 
me  I  no  longer  have  any  right.  The  grave  is 
yours,  for  she  loved  you  above  all.  Farewell, 
Karsten !  I  do  not  give  you  thanks  —  as  long 
back  as  I  remember  you  have  never  given  me 
anything  that  was  worthy  of  thanks.  We  shall 
[141] 


ANDREA 

be  lonesome,  but  less  lonesome  each  by  him- 
self than  together! " 

But  the  father  bent  down  over  her. 

"  Remain  with  me,  Jutta  —  in  my  poverty. 
Remain  with  me,  Jutta  —  help  me  —  in  my 
loneliness!" 

She  arose.  The  white  night-dress  fell  to  the 
ground  like  a  shroud,  and  her  eyes  burned. 

**  In  poverty  .  .  .  in  loneliness." 

'*  Jutta,  we  have  the  grave  ..." 

"Yes,  the  grave!" 


[148 


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